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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
| When did it become a sin not to know? I could not risk presumption, mind was aware of vindictive pain aim as stoicism stares. I’m not a human recorder, yet supply anything evidentiary, as if I should know why? So, atrophy? I go, less and less everyday. You might know Where I stand on a mass in soft flow, open sky — below, a streaming cool hue-dampening canvas and lace. I note a bleary sun amply streak spaces pilot eyes shade-spy by hand. New vistas taking shape; heart desires be. Peaceful, you know? On high, feather black form hovers, a beak crank cry — a sharp, throat note — and leap. Branch quivers relief, when heavy swoop, wings send out with force strength, sluice air, flap and stroke in demonstrated flight heading up. Landed in my river, feet soothe in whirling water sprite. Have you known? Sun sparks fleck signals on the constant flowage, compliment auditory senses in full access scene, free. Cleansing notes apply cascades as as strings plucked light, symphony in nettled wood, stump and rock, a float-water percussion. Solitary in procession, sensory arrival eternal revives. Might you ever? The sun travels not as a bright earth merry. I’m faster, should one foot forward. Visualized since breezes rebuff erratic butterflies propulsion above bending cattail yield. By barometric release, lift. Dragonflies supremely slice and fit where they flit, low. A plant leg unsucks a sinking shoe from muck, readies. And, you? Scent of fire smoke imprints memory on my nose, teasingly so — hardwood better than cedar. Thick stick meat tempts, as white marshmallow singe brown, daring black. Pull back, before a frown, and goo a flat graham to nestle warm with chocolate. I could melt, crossing a stream of time, to return. You? Coming? 6.25.25 31 lines, verse free me, “Wherein” is a play on ‘We’re In’ (this together), but the speaker is reminded to invite others to recall life and joy, because, less time to hate when by atrophy order. Where I could be, should friends…crow, monarch, dragonflies, campers alight. No tent, no trailer, no ground I spy, as I haven’t leapt far from the heavy green recliner, gravity nature where I’ll not aspire any higher or further than where two weak eyes might know…time to slow…out the window. Seasons come in all sizes. And, if fond memory allows…longer…linger…where I wade forgotten…summer horizons……
Ẃeβ࿚Ẃỉtcĥ  StephBee  Coda (unrelenting, streaming consciousness) The heart of darkness need not apply, as in red too near resides inside my four rooms with its valves snuffing out what consumes, chamber — by — chamber. Irritation is not pain. A reverse title poem most idiomatic, I supply. -Constant Content |
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