I wish.
The pattern of a maple tree
common, easily forgotten, everyday
neighborhood kind of tree.
Everyone's got one in their yard.
I could.
The sky at night south of the city
clouds showing one of the ten thousand
shades of indigo and arc light blue
behind the pattern of the maple tree.
Show you.
The memory contained, vision rewoven,
indigo prism shattered to hold the universe
like Durer's praying hands hold
all the spaces that are faith, all the spaces
between the leaves of the maple tree
spreading against the arc lit blue
writing equations of divinity
for anyone to calculate
on the night sky south of the city.