~After the dark of the forest the wind is home.[Drew Gardner - from The Meditations]
A voice, carried, out of the earth
or worn away to expose a solitary stone.
A bird I hear but cannot see.
Beads of water hang from brambles. Logics
and permutations of carbon, a pure mere beginning.
The strong wind that knows the sails.
One touch of the hand means more than any
of my intentions. There is a tear that is real
in our limitation and the wounding of light
from a dumb freedom real as well as unfolding
days. Vibrations in the air.
New storehouses bloom, steam from the compost
into the seen world passes away. The ground
thaws for an afternoon. A banquet. Esau's
red soup of republic, the massive cognitive
social river of forgetfulness.
Have I gone on too much about the burning of a fire?
But it is not by the red of the fire I am struck
dumb, but the blue. Is that the sound of
new Sumac flaming in winter? Entirely consume the tree!
That we might have a place to live in the gray ashes
left behind.
But these are only colors, absences
resounding in the stream. It is a stream we can hear
but can not see. The year explodes like horse chestnuts,
culminations of memory, plain as movement of the body
obscure as swallowed into the quiet heat of living
and there is a bell resounding.