Monday, September 25, 2017

End-of-Summer Bonfire in Los Alamitos

The bamboo has learned to be still
without learning the reason that it wasn't.
The grass where there once was a river
Lets rabbits pass through without bristling.

All that's allowed on the leaf-colored floor
is equally unknowable:
the why the squirrel bounds,
the how the alder bends,
dependencies are as hidden as faces.

Only the immovable sun could change
when creatures wake or dream;
what new perspective do we seek
in rustling the papers,
in breaking off the branches of the trees,
in knowing time to stop,
in willing space to yield
to check the outrage of perfection
that we think too much to comprehend?

The noise elongates to silence
in some unforeseen way, like the view
one can only see when rounding a cliff-side curve:
how it ends when it doesn't have to.