They carried through the changes, so that the people did what was required of them,
without being wearied.

When a series of changes has run all its course, another change ensues.

They hollowed out trees to form canoes; they cut others long and thin to make oars.

They used oxen in carts and yoked horses to chariots, thus providing for the carriage of
what was heavy, and for distant journeys, thereby benefiting all under the sky.

They made the double gates and the warning of the clapper, as a preparation against
the approach of marauding visitors.

They cut wood and fashioned it into pestles; they dug in the ground and formed mortars.

They bent wood by means of string, so as to form bows, and sharpened wood so as to make
arrows.

They made their homes in caves and in summer dwelt in the open country.

When the ancients buried their dead, they covered the body thickly with wood,
having laid it in the open country.
They raised no mound over it, nor planted trees around; nor had they any fixed period
for mourning. 

In the highest antiquity, government was carried on successfully by the use of knotted
cords to preserve the memory of things.
 
 
 

Thus, what we call the I is a collection of images.
They are styled symbolic as being resemblances.

There is a light coating of dew on the oak and cedar logs of my home.

The fresh scent of evergreen, morning blossoms and deer droppings phase through the air as it
changes in temperate zone from hot to cold I roll out of a warm bed and slide against her hair
and skin of silk; setting the iron pot full of fresh water on top of the wood stove, fanning last
night’s weak ember with a piece of yesterday’s news.

There is a light in her eyes as they open to the whistling steam, smell of tea, toasting bread,
fragrant oils and incense lit for morning zen. The butter drips and pools beside the bread, her
tongue slips over mine, exchanging breaths. 

All the lights in the studio are on, the palette of oils pool together into a coffee brown ––
vermilion dabs surprise the canvas weave, mixed emotions sieve and filter down to a common
denominator –– there is only myself to please.

All the lights in the sky call me out to play among warm breezes and running streams.
I strap on leather with buckle and heavy zipper, rev my sweet V-Twin around twisty mountain
lake vistas, come to terms with what I know about the road, what is left behind, what is
distance traveled, where I go and what pleasure there is in arriving.

There is a light on the floor where my breath goes                                           and I follow.

There is a light in my heart where I have always known no hollow chamber, no beating wings,
no butterflies, oil leaks from the crankcase and I am cranky, testing the limits of pain and
desire, the bubbling lamb stew almost ready, oozing linseed color running in rivulets of maize
and sienna.

Brush licks like my tongue lays down an image on her belly –– sweat pools and is absorbed by
rice paper mixed with ink –– a rorschach of orgasm.

Running down a mountain path holding my canvas high
wet paint collecting pollen, leaves and insect, grass brushing by, illuminating my strokes.
The time is passing yet we are continually renewed ––

There is a light and I am in it.