My daughter gathers the seeds she find in our desert, calls them spirits-- the spirita are us, she says when i worry those orbs in my fingers
to conjure her birth. The wind's first thought is to craft those seeds; vessels when the tree worries she's not enough of a multiplicity,
That she will burn into the cosmos.
The cosmos is no thought, no worry, more than us, but less than wind, and the wind is only the infinite,
Not the body's death, which is, after all, only a particle, but time formless as space.
This is only if the wind worries at all. The seed doesn't think --- she is the doubling ambition of a vessel.
In the wind, the idea, the idea of the copy is translated by time. We were once that idea. My daughter
collects me in a box marked for spirits where i unsettle the other seeds begging for wind so that my sound will echo a thousand miles away.
(incomplete)
YOU ARE READING
•/p ò e m s/•
Poetrya pòem/ poiēma is a piece of writing that partakes of the nature of both speech and song that is nearly always rhythmical, usually metaphorical, and often exhibits such formal elements as meter, rhyme, and stanzaic structure. it is something that ar...
