Chagall's lovers kiss in space.  A blue cow nibbles sky.
Flowers unfold in darkness beneath the earth,
and ocean depths teem with foam-flecked horses.
It's September, and apples rust on knobbed branches.

Yesterday's shadows are sweet on the tongue,
but how do we sample today?  Can we drink the wind?
What happens if we wrap time in our arms and try 
to inhale its wildness? Does a fruitful year weigh more?

Sometimes words are echoes of night-rain 
and we sip their mystery, but sometimes they mantle
skies like aurora borealis filling us with sheen 
of the north and heat of the south. 

Like Chagall's lovers we kneel in cloud to drink 
from the teats of the blue cow.  How rich are 
milk-tailed comets?  What color is tomorrow 
and how will it taste? we ask floating into canyons

of a thousand sunsets or welcoming the chrysalis
of dawn.  We are together.  We change directions 
once, then again, again. We promise.  We dare.  We 
kiss and, hands entwined, dance towards tomorrow.