Circles

High above the wheat fields
Zephyrus etches poems
in swirls of yellow ochre.
Poems unaware
of their own beauty
and lack of metaphor.

His ancient breath,
cabbalistic and quantum,
sweeps below the moon
like a song that makes
us centuries young
by use of sacred symbols.

Why are we here?

To seek divinity
in eveyday things.
Far and luminous
like the stars
intricate and beautiful
like crop circles.

DQ 3/10/06