Saturday, October 6, 2012

Poem Not About the Wind

Wind shakes and makes what's still seem real
but it is just some breath trespassing, the rasping
a resistance to what otherness is: a nothing.

The note of hollow shells when filled with emptiness
expresses what cannot be said, what won't be let go
with the rest, that remnant that stays on the branch

resisting streams of consciousness born at the poles
of thought—the hot and cold, the north and south—
a dumb and numbing flow, that changes how the trees

perceive themselves, that makes them speak and spread their refugees
to distant, barren pilgrimage—what passes in this world for interaction—
perhaps the truth is so well-hid because it is so deeply held,

there is no need to speak of it, except as moving of debris,
to clear some silence held too long,
to stretch some limbs and know you are alive.


Anonymous said...

Falling leaves are refugees on a barren pilgrimage...stunning illustration.

Assonance made a terrific read.

Tangential: When I saw "hollow shells," I thought immediately of projectiles.

erin said...

i keep smiling at your title. you clear your throat about to tell us something while telling us nothing and everything at the same time.

and the assonance, yes~~~ it reads beautifully, a sweet evolutionary breeze blowing.

i wonder what it is to be alive for you. is it this poem or is it something divergent, parallel, or other?