The man who helped prune the branches
of the fig mounded its lopped-off limbs
next to the recycling bin. That was two
weeks ago. But now on the tree, the ends
are putting forth little flames of green,
signals of a new season of growing.
No matter and in spite of what we do,
despite what happens, the hidden mechanism
of spring reasserts itself— Imagine if night
never turned into day; if the parent outlived
the child, if the sea swallowed then spat
itself out at the very place it began.
It's said snakes don't feel pain
when they molt. But sometimes, old injuries,
infections, or even weather can prevent
shedding. Over time, stuck in its own skin,
it might wither away from blindness and
malnutrition. In solitude, I crave
sweet occupations that can be enjoyed
with others. When I am with others,
sometimes my spirit turns restless,
desiring only the intimacy of silence,
the absence of expectation. Perhaps that's
kind of what people mean when they say I
don't know what to do with myself.
Either way, we're full of questions. Night
after night, the skies fill with a language
we are still trying to understand.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
