Wavering gently here then there,
we stare attentively through
the wormhole of consciousness
as the fleeting world calls out to us
in harsh and tender syllables.

When the dancing shutter of memory opens
we juxtapose the implicit threat
of a capricious mud slide or lava bloom
with the worn,
toppled granite gravestone
from 1858.

It is then that the fluttering kite of recollection
guides us fitfully towards a half-degraded tree stump
partially filled with rain water,
where once we stepped foot by foot
past a crinkled and misplaced beer can
(despite being drained of color
by the decades of steady sunlight,
something tells us that it, too,
once rested against the vulnerable curves
of an all-too human hand).

All the while the shifting undercurrent
of our liquid data banks splashes us
into the river of hope,
where the water cascades
through our rejuvenated fingers
and triggers a purifying desire
to end up like the rhizome
of a Fringed Blue Gentian:

when severed
it knows not to die
like a root

but instead,
from one,
it becomes
many.

05/04/2007

Author's Note: Please check out my new book! ;)>

Posted on 05/04/2007
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