But as the burgeons yield buds
As the buds yield blooms
Do you yield?
As the blooms yield to seeds
Do you yield to me?
It is in the seeds that immortality lies . . .
But what are the seeds without burgeon?
What are the burgeons without buds?
What is the Spring
And so I yield myself
In this moment
A moment forged so long ago
Not because I anticipate reward
But because it is right in this moment
I yield myself to the seasons
For no good reason at all
And as such I move beyond change
If I wish to see
I must open my eyes
Must open my hands and release my death grip
on my assumptions
I must dial my perception filters back to zero
Must make the walls of my world transparent
I must be like water. . .
that the water in this lake is transparent
Yet holds the reflection of the sky
Nor capture the image of the flying geese
The reflection lasts only a moment
and then its gone
To truly see
I must be like water
A news paper left on the porch in the rain
in one of those science movies of the Precambrian
The itch becomes unbearable
and i’m bored
I peel down
pick at the flaking scabs
pull gently at the integument
Under all the geologic layers
the striations. . .
Is there a chewy surprise center?
(tootsie pop reference)
Or am i just a ghost in a box
A Schrödinger’s experiment
when you open the box
you never see the ghost
but when you close the box back up
the ghost is there
sunlit parachutes of dandelion
the clenched fist of night
darkness soaked in the mist
dissolves into dawn
Silver clouds getting all crimson on their bellys
The heat from the pavement and bricks
remembers how the relentless sun pounded it for hours
The slinky zlinky zephyr coils around the light pole
singing a song of summer moths and fireflies
Ten thousand tiny eyes
pearls of reflective dew drops on leaves of grass
You look away
to a moon half full
a moon in pursuit of the westering sun
“I wonder if the sun can see its own light?”
I lean into the coming night
and just the way a child at the beach
has no sense of separateness
I lean into you
Once I dreamed of a place
far up in the wind
A windswept room near the top of a volcanic plug
Like the Ship Rock or Devil’s Tower
In that dream I knew
that when I got there I’d look across the barren desert
and know complete peace
It not as though wastelands are vacant
There is an energy there that hums through the mesas
And I was there. . .
I was. . .
I was dragged back to this place
Pulled backward like a white lily to this place of sweat and noise
like an angle being pulled into the future
when all he really wanted
was to go back and fix the things he had broken. . .
Once I dreamed of a place
far up in the wind. . .