I listen to the dancing of sounds
Spinning each other with wispy tulle
And shaking, shaking their skirts of leaves
Clicking their heels, the earth rewords
Quickly to the heart- the autumn wind blows
To tell the tale of the land below
Where each life falls with a breeze
Swiftly caressing the silky fool
From the heights to the dirt floor.
To walk outside through the changing woods;
To feel a part of the earth: the unspoken place
Where all were born.
But looking down to covered feet with synthetic
Forms and cushioned beats, separating from the crispy dry leaves which
Lie like gold in a Pirates treasure heap.
And try to think the real thoughts of worth
Of origin, order, or of birth
No thoughts will conjure from the dark stew
Because the soles of synthetic mark
The separation of form from earth.
It does indeed cure the shell
To lie and walk and feel the
Uncontained wild and finally
The heart can roam and
Simply breath, pulsing and
Reaching to the deepest dirt like
Ancient trees with digging roots.
Fallen trees look to the sky
Of bursting stars, licking the night like an inextinguishable fire;
Fallen, fallen to the ground
Where crunching leaves mindlessly surround
And every weather, rain and wind and sun and heat
And cold and dark and shining
Can seep into the veins of wondering men and
Give them life.
But I return to my machine
Which tells me when to breath.
I throw this book of white
Parched paper and find some bark
Where all philosophy is recorded.
The grass sways, the wind shakes it;
The trees bend, upon the mountain
And it moves, slowly consuming.
Does the morning glory, in
Its closure, wish the opening back again?
Does the apples’ heart weep when
A bruise appears on its skin- and ponder
Its youthful days on the branch?
Does the golden rod plan out the day-
And now I glimmer, and now I fade,
And here I’ll go, and there I’ll sway?