in the first revolution of gaia

in moons
this is the first revolution of gaia
when something isn't pushing me awake
some cantankering must or would
(or some five or fifty-five of them).

i round the bend on the morning walk
that i take because the sun shows up
shockingly in december to remind us
what we're missing the other 222 days a year
when she's away.

i am confused. how do we respond
to a world on fire? how do we remember where we are
when rectangles try to repattern our thinking
in rectangle houses on rectangle streets
(there's nothing upright about life,
nothing rect that hasn't wrecked it).

i dream of walking through curved gardens
where dragon and apple branch guide us, where
plinth and driveway have revived to path and wanderwalk.

inside me, this ancient garden swerves my neural
networks into using the other 90%+ of my emergent
capacity. the cup of the hand, the moon, this earth
soften and flare. when they talked about the Garden
they were talking about my thinking. No one ever lost

the Garden. we carry it surely in our pen and thought.
in dancing limb and vox.
everytime we write a poem or sing, we become sturdy
trees of wisdom and life, girding ourselves trunklike
and in nonlinear blossomwhirl
for another (ancient) day (way):
our brains and hearts are landscapes of peace.
within are galaxies of curve and connection.
inside are looping and lumpy cosmos of creativity/creation.
our brains and hearts are landscapes of peace.