Blue balloon birds ascend,
reflected in, and above a mirrored mire, glassy by nature,
at the very least, the way it should be.
Let’s pretend the stillness is not uncommon
and hide beneath the surface,
only our toes and noses piercing ripples through the shallow liquid metal sheet.
If it were solid, this mud-metal sheet,
we’d be frozen, although still a perfect reflection of the concrete clouds halted ascension,
and hide beneath the surface,
respected by rocks, the gargoyles of nature,
for the things we have uncommon.
Stoic connections if only for the way it could be.
Shadowless flies a bee.
Its shadow reflected in the deep sky sheet,
released to nothing and everything uncommon.
A single tree pierces the surface, leafless it alone ascends.
Standing on the mirror doubles its size as nature
acts as a point between two infinitely retreating surfaces.
We’ll start from the center, the starting point surface.
Up or down become relativities to be,
greater than either but neither in nature.
The bee’s hive tightly coiled, white-yellow crumpled paper sheets,
heavy with honey’s upward spiral, ascending,
as two mirrors facing each other, an ending uncommon.
Stalemate, this world, and us in common.
We hide beneath the past’s glass surface.
The submergence will kill our bodies in time, descending,
sinking to the sky for there we’ll be
between the star’s sheets.
One with death, two with nature.
So now between the bee and me and you, nothing but natural
silence and buzzing commonalities.
Tracks composed and performed by rain sheets
beat rhythms on the ceiling surface,
where beneath we wait to be
evaporated or drank up by the hollow bones of birds ascending.
Finally flight achieved, ascending from the surface like steam,
shattering sheets of ice with uncommon volume,
free to be nature itself or nothing.