We dream philosophy with our golden minds.
We hover over gardens with our green minds.
I pull up a root: my heart is in a pool of fire
but the weed can't live against the blueberry.

August will drive all color before it like the captives
on the Roman stone, who carry the broken temple.
No savior came or the one who came held a whip.
The blackberry with its crowd of thorns.

We sat in the garden, drank coffee with clear blue mind.
When rain came, we retreated with violet mind.
The weather of history is partly cloudy & full of lightning.
There's so much lightning there's no room for sky to breathe.

But on the days without history we make love
in the abandoned garden, the vines have overrun
the oaks, dark cables climb the gnarled trunks,
their roots plunge deep into the I know not what.

There is no time in the you and me, no disaster
no history, just golden philosophy. Gold
is the color of pollen, and of children's stars
and the roses' rose hides a secret mind of gold.