Behold the Verdigris Dreamer made flesh,
emerald fur spun from the first lie of dawn
when light told the leaves they could keep it forever.
His eyes are twin braziers of molten amber,
burning holes through the parchment
as if the words themselves
were hiding from the heat of his gaze.
Look: the book trembles in his moss-green hands,
pages older than sorrow,
edges gilded by a sun that has forgotten how to set.
The script crawls like ivy across the vellum,
sentences curling into question-marks
that bloom into tiny screaming orchids
whenever he exhales.
He sits on a throne of fallen sky,
where clouds once tried to become roots
and failed gloriously.
Every strand of his beard is a river
that has read its own reflection
and decided to grow downward
just to see what the mud knows.
Between his toes,
small galaxies practice breathing.
A single dewdrop on his knuckle
contains the entire history of thunder
learning how to whisper.
He does not read the book.
The book reads him,
turning his pulse into marginalia,
his heartbeat into footnotes
that annotate the silence
between “Let there be”
and the first monkey who dared to ask “Why not?”
His tail is a slow comma
pausing the sentence of the universe
just long enough for wonder to sneak in
wearing nothing but moonlight
and a stolen halo made of fireflies.
This is no mere ape.
This is the jungle remembering
that it once dreamed of thumbs
and woke up holding revelation
like a half-peeled banana
dripping with the original sweetness
of a God who laughed so hard
He split open the first page
and called it Genesis.
emerald fur spun from the first lie of dawn
when light told the leaves they could keep it forever.
His eyes are twin braziers of molten amber,
burning holes through the parchment
as if the words themselves
were hiding from the heat of his gaze.
Look: the book trembles in his moss-green hands,
pages older than sorrow,
edges gilded by a sun that has forgotten how to set.
The script crawls like ivy across the vellum,
sentences curling into question-marks
that bloom into tiny screaming orchids
whenever he exhales.
He sits on a throne of fallen sky,
where clouds once tried to become roots
and failed gloriously.
Every strand of his beard is a river
that has read its own reflection
and decided to grow downward
just to see what the mud knows.
Between his toes,
small galaxies practice breathing.
A single dewdrop on his knuckle
contains the entire history of thunder
learning how to whisper.
He does not read the book.
The book reads him,
turning his pulse into marginalia,
his heartbeat into footnotes
that annotate the silence
between “Let there be”
and the first monkey who dared to ask “Why not?”
His tail is a slow comma
pausing the sentence of the universe
just long enough for wonder to sneak in
wearing nothing but moonlight
and a stolen halo made of fireflies.
This is no mere ape.
This is the jungle remembering
that it once dreamed of thumbs
and woke up holding revelation
like a half-peeled banana
dripping with the original sweetness
of a God who laughed so hard
He split open the first page
and called it Genesis.
The Sunday Circle