The line of trees weaved at the heavens
With intertwined arms entreating wanders
To trespass into the secret why
No secrets held nor told; ‘tis the dryad’s way
“Seek me if you will – I am life beyond”
And in the quiet of the woods, I came to rest
At the feet of hamadryad, my soul seeks no more.
The way was long
the signs were not;
"Hasten home "
the scene granted
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as the waning moments
lost all sense of direction
and I stood as a paradox
of the signs -
a light in a box of darkness.
The comings and goings of the flop house, that is his carefully molded mind, begets
many a character that neither pays nor works for their stay and most eventually meander away
to whatever place launched their lostness however, a few remain to stir the asylum
into a tea of madness...
the windows are always open.
I can no longer perceive
How truth can not receive
It's guise nor its nakedness
Without first seeking a darkness
Where light is useless -
I believe.
(Photo by Ruth Z)
Where there is chaos
There is concinnity
Where there is dispassion
There is coherence
Follow all doubt
There may be reason.
The sails ask not the ship's mast for a sense of place;
the sails tell not the thermals which direction shall find land;
the sails know not the winds that drive their presence;
the winds never wonder why the ship, the mast or sails
need to reason for emotion.
The winds are an existential relative for all things
that must have movement.
We wildflowers - are connected to earth
and to nature in ways that can only be understood
by a lone blossom stating its indomitable presence
while sprouting its beauty from the crack of a cold
and unforgiving boulder
in a series of timeless reoccurances -
Wildflowers shall note our last place
was our beginnings.
