Monday, April 12, 2021

Stories

My scratchy pen is seeding a line 

along the curve of this awkwardly tilting earth.  

Spring is close to a poem, I guess;

The greening, the daily buds, the awakening brown.


Weary air is draping trees, joining a

freed wind, collecting, randomly dropping. 

And we float, the unknown billions, as our 

molecular starry selves. Alone, small parts, pieces 

bouncing against another. Invisibly solid. 


Our incandescent spirits;

Those moving on the other side, who 

continue to love us, free of these 

burdensome bodies, our beloved cages.


It’s the inconceivable that 

is born in secret. Like the stories 

we are and how we are our stories.

No comments:

Barry Lopez

 Ive just finished a book I started years ago. It was one of those books that made me too sad. So, I put it aside. This week, I picked it up...