Terry Ehret, Sonoma County , California US, poet and creative writing professor wrote poem about this picture.
No more words needed.
Some days I wake up, a rootless mountain. A hand grasping at dreams, my thread, my tau. My head, some blasted seed, a pocked stone, tossed in a pool of light.
Light echoes in rhythms painted on water, like the first music, like the note the earth hums in its slow turning. The blessed, blessed light touching the comforting breast of night.
In the house of night, I wake, turning on lights that cast no light, searching for words to give myself a shape I might recognize. In the beginning, the wind without form blows through the house, sets the whorl of creation spinning.
Between darkness and darkness, light and water, the twined and measured dream once tethered me like a flower, like an island, floating on the surface of the night-sea, flickering lights and pulses, each a flower, opening with a thousand arms