“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, March 16, 2019
the gazing tree
Words are my mirror.
In one frame, there Is
an accuracy and simultaneous
Alienation,
projecting from This compact structure,
such as a singular dimension,
as in Ego,
ergo sum
perception.
I pointed
my gaze
out-
side-
this Home
provides no shelter.
I wanted to pick the words,
like weeds,
carefully including the root,
which is a sure sign
of eradication, or hope
of never returning.
So my eyes and hands scan
scan the sky
but only a breeze
could find meaning
There.
What does remain
Solid
after trying to convey
an idea, to prose?
Must be made with
origination,
in other words,
something like; a black box, a red wheelbarrow,
13 blackbirds
and a parched poet
scratching tan paper under an old oak tree.
Photograph by Dietmar Rabich / Wikimedia Commons / “Senden, Venner Moor -- 2013 -- 2305” / CC BY-SA 4.0.
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