blue skies poetry

He never knew

	the language of water,

the tragedies of ocean,

the comfort of tides
For him the earth was rock:

obsidian the mother

of tears gone to glass,

fixed in his face and

  squinting like a far-sighted sailor
For him the breasted hills

waited, nippled and nervous

for slow unbandaging

	of darkly creviced gems,

Gaia sweetly shuddering to his hand
Such days he knew himself

and knew himself at home,

thralled in earthen passage,

beveled flesh he made his own
He never spoke

	in the liquid language

but used a carbon sorcery

to let the lava flow

and furl and flower,
a lei of jeweled earth

  yet longing for the sea