Sunday, August 11, 2019

Scholar

It's Derrida's Dublin at sunrise
As your delicate fingers ply weeds

And you lay a fresh layer of manure
To help the implications grow ...

The nascent roots below are alive
As long as you can cultivate meaning.

They ascend on their own,
In symbiotic relation;

You believe in the seed within the mystery
As they want the unsaid released

-- That this trace of the future
May someday stand for the past.

You fight for every inch of black dirt truth
In a field where all surface is illusion.

You look for things that no one else has seen
In the smallest folds of soil, the oldest clay,

A sifting that you always memorialize,
For the thing you chase does not regard itself

Except as you collect the scraps
And shells, the fibers of hair.

The blind worms below circle and gnaw
Whatever they can reach for,

But in your rarefied air mere ideas
Take on the labyrinthine structure of things.

Fruit yet green from the constantly thinking universe
Is almost ready for the arrogant children

Who soon will burn the field with an acrid stench.
But you will make sure that something is remembered ...

Not the cries of other humans,
The voices through the trees,

Just the word and its inability to speak.
It calls to you like a nurturing nest.

You won't stop for the comforts of the turning earth
When knowledge is as limitless as you are.