It is not of blocks and forms that interests me

Nor the consolidation of tainted facts into such,

It is not of the past of nations or peoples gone

Of structures or wars between us all abound

Of lines or borders brought by empires’ might,

It is not of these that this now is, but  this  here  now.

I long to unbind such stiff and fetid field

Cast out the cord that stifles all, that such words do grip.

So, of invisible threads and light and sparkling seems

I leap from spring to spring tasting of the rich scented blooms

Which leads elsewhere most freely and with fate beside

Like pounding wave and twitching branch that bows

We flow amongst and between and through

Barely touching but permeating this whole

This tentative linkage to the terrestrial home

And fluid as life’s fire in heaven’s hearth…

I find it not easy to make solid and firm that which is fluid and shifting, no matter how I might elaborate its form. In nature the ever-shifting tides of substance and perception, relationship and communication render such perfidy imperfect no matter what transitory perspective we might chose to observe from. As my inquisitiveness seeks and enjoys the adaptability of lateral and creative mind I struggle within a structure and intent long past. I shall not be tied to the spire to relish my singular power but shall work hard within this inadequacy, this never quite enough, this common communion of permissiveness and tacit irony.

So do not tell me it is otherwise – I have not heard it said in wind, in breath of beach and gull and blade of grass (although I am familiar with such certainty in eloquent tomes of mans’ adulation of himself). I shall swim for a while in intellects unfeeling fogginess. I shall not unthicken or stir until this grog and gloom do pass with fates sweet turning. I will simply yearn for friendship, for honesty and for love.

Around us it seems, and we are told, the world crumbles in our wake of wastefulness and greed, of miscalculation and underestimation of our success and desire for more. We struggle to reassess. We make repercussive plans and apologies in lieu of forewarned yet intangible destruction. What once seemed beyond limit has now found its full extent, and growth is no longer a possibility. So all is left is to diversify, to copy and to emulate, to transfix our petty minds with transition (in the name of survival’s genetic call) to resolve to be resilient in selfless insurance (despite some science saying not at all).

And for me that is incentive enough: to defy the masterful, the oh so jolly clever, the number crunching statisticians who deign to get their hands dirty for fear of change or challenge, or to face the filthy honest truths (and lies). I will whistle in the wind, dance to the tune of the dragonfly, illusory as a single drop, that feeds a single seed, that sheds a single leaf, to be washed downstream, beyond the weir to tidal calls and waders shrill and salty sea; I will fly as a cloud as this sun sets again…


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