i.
A strong
medicine crawls
within this slow
sandy
stream. How it
settles upon us,
sometimes
– complacent as a
digesting diamondback,
then petulant
and contrarian
as an overtired toddler,
fists balled up
against the scurry of fall.
How is this
indolent stream not sucked into
service by
the mercenary soul of October to
December? With
its rustle and tug of lists,
its countless
details, each a suitor flirting
for our
attention. More fool’s gold for duty.
My
Anais Nin flings her confetti of milk
weed feathers,
of mica flecks onto a hot
breeze, she is a
sister entropy to cicada
song,
the sugar of river seduction.
My reptile
brain hungry for a
flash of primal
spark,
hangs on each
note.
ii.
Was a
time we lead
with a different
attitude,
lighter and deft,
how we
jibbed and jived – grass,
feather and fur,
how we were savage
and bloody
consumed, blooming green
and giving. How
invisible the blades that
flayed us from
skin and essence, the hand
that cradled a
robot paradigm, that bullies
our daily
communion into digital drudge,
that presses life and breath into a corporate
conscription for five star meals, medical
commodity, grape picker, housecleaner,
factory cog, Lolita currency, Golden
Goose, bottom feeder, bottom line.
conscription for five star meals, medical
commodity, grape picker, housecleaner,
factory cog, Lolita currency, Golden
Goose, bottom feeder, bottom line.
The slow river is
laughing at
us.
iii.
Today
I happened to
look up at a moment
in migration and murmuration,
a mosquito massacre of dragonflies
swarming with swallows and swifts, and
breathless, besotted, I couldn't
understand
the allegiance to all the gadgets and
mental
clutter, the wax wings, when divine
fecundity
loves us more. The dark mysteries who
minister
and menstruate everything into compost
for
restoration. The miracles that bring us
perfectly together and dissolve us
perfectly apart, again and again,
are sine waves or prayer
wheel. Our perpetual
becoming.
iv.
And if we
stretch, we can
touch upon the tenacity
of spiders, their habit of
extending miles of themselves
in milky threads, in draglines
of
silk to wave aloft
as mandala, netting
morning dew and apricot light
and aerial
plankton and our wonderment; gathered in
this snare of today's
livelihood, a beloved
poem, seeded in
collapse and the wisdom to
weave again. Below the poem, a slow stream
braids and rebraids its currents in a dharma
of
deposition and erosion eons deep. And
in the
ebb and flow, ebb and flow of
slow sediments and flighty silk
squats a paradox often
mistaken for a rock.
That which seems
to disappear,
nevertheless,
is really
here.
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