Here is the latest selection from my collection, Words Transcending Themselves.
Mud and rock.
Roots probing out like fingers that just found their way into gloves.
Where the light filters green through dewey leaves and lands on spider webs.
Where my boots leave their tracks.
And the frog thrums. And the mosquito sucks.
And the breeze and the bees carry pollen
Where the dead baby field mouse
Feeds the bugs and the microbes and the scavengers.
Memory and foreknowledge are the same things here.
Prophecy is history here, and history is prophecy
We grow old and we die and we grow young then.
Morning and noon and night.
Summer. Fall. Winter. Spring.
Chase. Pounce. Eat.
Clouds, then rain, then sun,
Moon and sun, waxing moon, waning moon, moon and sun…
Infinite repetitions at every scale imaginable
Consider, for example that rain:
Drops came down.
Lightning split open the sky.
Ripped A fissure to Elsewhere,
A crack in the stuff of existence.
It release the thunder: a roar from some other world.
And then it is silent again.
This is the place where stories are born.
This is the womb of myth.
It is the swampy fertile birthing ground of poetry…
If I will let this background become my foreground.
If I will submit to the dissolution of the line between setting and character,
Between theme and plot.
Between me and you.
some magic will move through me.
A flute looks like such a small thing.
Out of context, you might call it an ugly metal little tube.
But behold the glories that rise up from it.
As the column of air moves up it and through