Echo, it is told, was loved vainly by Pan.

He cast her to the Earth where shepherds,

driven mad by her tune, tore her to pieces

and the Earth absorbed her noise.

The Grateful Dead

Seventeen and sylphan.

Grass,

the color,

hovering between blue and green,

in my lungs,

amid my toes.

Falling visibly

in separate drops

of sound,

I am

young dragonfly,

silhouetted.

I seek to obtain

unity,

mahatama,

the sage,

in the thickness of a wall,

the narrow passage.

The woods and river,

close eyes

to self-surrender,

to the natural keys

that sweep,

freely alter shape,

change in fluctuation,

elemental spirit of the air.

Dust of the earth,

generations

cross-legged and

sunburst-wrapped

sit arm-in-arm.

Beads glint

on bare skin,

exposed.

Silvered-fingers

flash

together in rhythm

momentum.

Flute-playing jinx

listens vainly

to the dulcet tones,

reflections of waves,

symbiotic

with music

laughter.

He dances,

trilling devilishly.

I answer in wind and chimes,

cry the rain,

before it leaves the sky.

A humming-bird

of emerald,

he offers grappa and

shade.

I, a painted curtain,

backdrop of scenery,

gallery of people,

collectibles.

It is not exceptional,

not miraculous,

this offering

laden with mysticism.

But as different

as water and stone.

Seventeen,

in a sea,

instinctively stirring,

swelling,

hands curving sky.

I stumble through,

wracked with noise,

a katydid,

helpless to stop vibrations.

A whistled-reed

split between

a young boy’s lips.

I stand

accused and wronged,

a rainbird,

lost in the desert.

An aquarelle,

washed in salt water,

thin and transparent,

enclosed in mists,

in a aproned-skirt of red.

No tin-tune playing

for my blue-paper lantern,

sky whipped,

torn into pieces,

feathering the crowd.

A riverbed

devoured

by an ocean.