Winter is a false vacuum, well seeded,
budded, set on our journey's geodesic-
only apparent solstice stillness, a low-tide sine
flatlines the ebb of daylight -
while over
thirty three thousand usual miles an hour
we hurtle with the turtle, flipside.
Even then, the missing, the yearning so starves us
that we cover it in goose-fat and drown it in booze.
The Void that carries its own inverse is not the Eternal Void.
Here's one as plain as this cumuli-brained, humid day,
in the Planck map of the CMB*, an empty honeycomb
a cosmic giantism, vacant tenancy, unfurnished -
'nor iron bars a cage'.
No sooner conjured than
a little fly sits on the words and cocks his facets,
sparrow in access of boldness hops under my table
all about my meditating feet, fritillary tries out
one chair back and then another - for the basking on...
Point made.
I guess I needed Buddha from my teens -
in rage about the ruins of wet loves -
or Zen, TM,
but what chance did I have, Lao-Tzu?
If dry the birdbath, filled it up straight-way,
inhaled the ineffable, restless in elderflower,
the same as now, when all green feathers
of tall grasses ruffle and wave, flying
the garden to some unknown clime;
and when they still, a buttercup peeps out
from under-tree shadow so sweet-painterly,
so jauntily, by all the grinning, green goblins
in their Rackham glazes.
Big-Mamma Summer's
coming,
oozing nipple graffitied on the sine-curve
maximum.
The gossamer guys of her tent are strung;
and how swashbuckling
these young bird survivors.
.........................
*There's a big cold spot in the CMB, cosmic microwave background.
