Dear Future Me, You’re going to be better, right? Than I am right now? Please drop me a line and let me know it’s all going to be okay.
Dear Earlier Me, You should have seen us. Serene and, is it placid? Better than placid because we’re vigorous and right there. But when the moment turned–there are an infinite number of these moments–we didn’t turn too. For example, when we were riding Gus, maybe the fifth time when we were both becoming comfortable with each other, he skittered sideways from the poles that had been there all week. Before, we might have bent his head around, spinning to a stop, gasping through what might have been. Running the multitudes of bucks and bolts and falls and injuries before the spook had its second step. Instead, we added leg. Instead, we moved with him. Instead, we danced the diagonal, turning the unexpected energy into poetry–a leap into the future and harmony. An embrace and shaping that became beauty. You should have seen us, relinquishing at least enough control to learn how to soar.
A smear in my conscousness, Mere wisp of genius and Traces where the eraser Touched lightly.
What was that moment When I solved the universe? Aliens whispering non-words. The pattern clicked.
I trace the arc of a Red-tailed hawk, Lazy circles belying Life or death seconds.
Beneath the mulch-straw, Garlic pushes its green snout up While a vole Noses by.
I dreamed the future and Woke up to the past.
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was to take a line from prose that we love, make that line the title, write the poem based on the title, then change the title. I pulled from the opening of the brilliant Jo Ann Beard’s “The Fourth State of Matter.” Something smeared on a blackboard became this little poem.
Who am I to project ordination? A passenger on a canoe. The diamond of its bow in space and in water. My face, now reflected in the parting ripples. Boundaries blurred. If I’m perfectly still, my tear disturbs the surface. More ripples. What boundary? Air and water? I make water. I inhale air. To ordain what is part of me? I make myself you and would You chop down me? Chop down you? Will my boundaries hold? Can my skin contain my heart and My mind As they reach out to Hold and comfort and destroy? Light pouring out my fissures– Do I dissolve as dry powder or melt, like Dali, Waiting for my alien ancestors to tell me “You’ve done well, come home.” When will I learn to shed This husk holding me within and Emerge into everything?