Overlooking the Rain Forest

There is much unwritten about the rain forest. The sky, for instance, where does it say that the stairs to the clouds begin here in the wound of the rainbow? Where does it warn that romantics will be over-indulged here, encouraged to covet robin eggs and wrap themselves only in sky? This blue converts the self-respecting honeybee From performer to dancer Because really, there is no need for applause. It is false to believe that unless the dance is done correctly, the others will not find food for the hive. Everywhere here is God’s feast, Its abundance unavoidable, Sweet to the point of purple prose; a stumbling block to the clinician wanting to live up to the law. All those William Stafford elephants, urging me to freedom, to truth, to smallness have arrived here. Before me sits an enormous bowl of rain-drenched sun. And out of reverence to the God of the sky, who is also the Sea God and the God of the Poor and the Rich and stars too many to count, I will be grateful on this God-stocked morning – for every betrayal, every misconception, every failure, loss, argument, death & violent awakening that brought me dumbstruck to His branching arms and His indigenous mind. Here I sink into my romantic propensities and do not founder. To all the if onlys and what ifs, God snaps back and says, “I told you so.” “You weren’t so wrong.” “Your desire is warranted.” “You aren’t a Polly Anna, a cry baby, a whimp.” This place both widens and answers my inexplicable longing, By its very filling creating yet a deeper thirst. Here it is useless to deflect the compliment, the lavished undeserved gift of gratuitous beauty. One does not crave untasted fruit. Somewhere before I have tasted this. Not the me of my body but the me passed down through Eve, Proving something even grander awaits. I will lift/levanter/inclinacion my eyes/ojos unto the hills/Colinas, from whence cometh my help/remediar. My help comes from the Lord, the Maker/fabricator He will not let your foot slip – he who watches over Israel will neither slumber or sleep. Even still, I am aware of death; can I actually stand by your bed, while you go from living to dying and trust beyond your sad transfiguration – your affirming face caved to a slack canvas completely abandoned, forced to consider how I might continue on without you, knowing what happened to you in your last hours would someday happen to me? Only I wouldn’t have you to hold me. Or what if it is me first? I don’t want you to see me slowly dissolving, unveiled, becoming a caricature. If only to stand in the arch of this rainbow long enough to be scored by its colors and carry its mark home to you, wishing you would always see me this way – awestruck with color, small-waisted, hair blowing, firmly planted in joy.