North,

a sandy beach, white caps on

blue water lapping against

the shore, strands of clouds

dividing the light blue while

he walks the beach and

then sails away on

the boats

in the distance.

 

Moving east,

a Labrador Retriever,

dragon-fly, black cat

all dancing beneath

Kokopelli’s pipe and

stacked like a friendly

cobra emerging from

a rattan pot while dry

oats sway

in the breeze.

 

In the northeast corner,

from bottom to top

shelves, a Spanish

priest, ballerina and

woman from mother’s

sewing basket converse;

an African king, Indian

chief, mermaid swap

stories; big, fat, burly

woman, Indian maid,

pixie just stare and on

top, three black and white,

dancers entwined and

beckoning him to the

dance macabre or

is it the

Cirque du Soleil?

 

Northeast,

still, Florida, Atlantic coastal

waters and azure blue sky

meet at the sandbar he

swims to and walks

along.

 

Due east,

splashes of blue, brown,

tan, red, yellow, squiggles

all around,

up and down —

the dunes,

sky, inland sea, bright life

along the shore and

along the shore,

the dancing magician

performing for his

pleasure.

 

Straight east,

shadows of two people on a

ledge fingers touching, the

Grand Canyon opening

beneath them in red,

green, blue, brown

and he considers

hiking to

the bottom after

the wedding.

 

Southeast,

the matrix from which

swirls life round and

round the corners

out into the labyrinthine

universe. He greets

his friends standing along

the mantel: Copper Pipe

Man, three Native

Spirit Women singing to

Mother

Earth/Father Sky,

the donut-shaped Indian

brave in brown, the dog

which

has been sleeping

since 1901 (Let him lie.),

honeymoon

pottery from Vancouver,

Peacock Woman, Serpent

Woman,

African Queen

standing so majestic,

all.

 

Southeast corner,

African women with pots

on their heads

head home from market. He

celebrates their balance and

enjoys their singing the

dreary day of drudgery

away in

their bright, colorful

dress.

 

Turning the Southeast corner,

translucent tulips stand

tall and he doesn’t

need the colors

to grasp their glory

and gasp.

 

Due south,

pilings marching along the

silver/white water. Worn

down, they march on.

 

Straight south,

through the sliding door

he sees the pine grove,

pond, ten-year-old gold

fish, waterfall.

 

He gives thanks for the

colors, the water (fresh and salt),

sand dunes, woods, deer paths

into hiking trails, desert canyon,

and all his wild and wooly

friends surrounding and

emerging from the matrix

of his 180 degree

world.