The Tangle

I don’t mind that this mind of mine
takes the word “mouse”
and transforms it to “rocket” or “dagger”
or “fishing shack,”

so that the sound of their vermin feet
in my walls becomes a space race,
a war, a life on the sea.  Hear mouse,
realize everything.  I’ve learned

to live with this.  I call it blessing
and not curse, though when I thought 
the word “blessing” at first I heard
“California redwoods” and then “magma,”

and “blessing” became a vision
of forests jumping into blaze along rivers
and roads of liquid fire.  Blessing is fire
here within me.

Everything’s always in the process
of being connected to all else.
Any one word leads to another
as fire leads to ash, as flash flood

leads to canyon, as mouse
leads to dagger rocket fishing shack
or blessing leads to volcano-sparked trees
lit like candles along the coast.  

Shh, says the Universe, by which I mean
the dying willow in the backyard.  Don’t spill
all the secrets of the tangle, little mouse;
there will be blessings upon you if you do.