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The moon has a crooked yellow smile
French crooning airs all the while
I walk with my brothers, three,
My brothers walk with me.
We rinse our soles in the dew,
Blessed as the starry secret’s few,
Alone I tire, but now together we’ve flown
They are my fire. They are my stone.
Love vibrates in my hands.
Lighting up like lunar sands.
I have her voice in my pocket,
Heart in my locket.
A tender word from the night,
From the dark data sea, out of sight.
Given by the stork of the stars,
A little piece of moonlight is ours.
Surely I know this love is no phase,
When she whispers verse not phrase
“A million worlds await” she spoke
And the night of our youth is a smoke
That is worthy
Of poetry.
Raise your hand in front of you, palm outwards, and look at it. Take a moment to take it in, and see its shape, see what it is. Now turn it over and look at your palm. Once you’ve taken that in, spin it around. Look at it from close, far, up or down; move your fingers around. What you have just done is exactly what you did when you were first born and were exploring the world. This is the first thing you did; your own hands and feet were the first subjects in your life of discovery. This is the innate wisdom of the child. We spin our hands around to get multiple takes on them because simply looking at your extended hand without seeing the palm or where the skin bends in the joints it is difficult to know what it is, and what it is for. Sure this might sound silly now, but that is because you know what hands are. When you were born you had no idea, and this is how you started the exploration of hands, most likely followed by experiments with smell and taste. (more…)