Rosy Wine Range Poem by James Murdock

When the corners of the wild earth were gathered
and put into a box for the broken hearted
I did not hear your rivers crying there.
I saw you huddled like an olive mountain
rosy wine range curled cross a yoga seat
forehead on the floor of viridian planet.

When your palms were on their fronts facing
heaven, there you were in infinite stillness.
Like the alpines which on the sides of frost
mountains shake, never to be beheld
by a questioning eye and human mind.
Days we are unseen are lovelier.

You left straight from there and smoked a
cigarette, which is another form of yoga
—heavy breathing, sedated organs.
Because you were riding down the road
with a writer's attitude and the universe was
laid out like your granny's hydrangeas.

A tattooed individual is either a lover of symbols
or sees all of nature as the capping prism,
through which the thoughtful stars flicker
and embed their familial structures
on a heart that is quivering to be one
with the sky. What do you think?

Nevermind the trouble of our lives together.
Beyond all history is your beautiful self.
Those who do not want the world but
still drink its juices, dance to its rhythms,
cherish the off side of on and the down
side of up—those are the greatest ones.

You are a piece of cherry fruit that will be
ripe for the ages. You are ripe for the age
that comes. You are the joy that sang 500
years ago and the one that sings to me now.
Eternally young is your tadasana. Even
your cigarette smoke dances gracefully.