Waxing hissing descending from high up in autumn breeze pushed trees.
Soft-hearted poplars and white oaks that shed skin like tall gray upright snakes.
Truck bed lower lip slammed echoed through otherwise quiet country distance.
Black scavenging ants that get on and into any available crevice.
Faded bricks segregated by weak taupe concrete lines,
and me, writing in red ink.
A poem about listening.
About eyes open watching.
Knocking down walls of swaying green
and throwing red pine straw mulch
and brown dust
and whipped black earth.
These details are what are, what is, what all, around me, exists.
A tangled consciousness such as this is no more or less
than the thread which has pierced and knit them all together.
So much of writing poems is so much no more than sewing.
Mending what was not the least bit broken.
For the mind is an eye unlike any other.
It can not be closed once it is open.
No corner of life is simple. It is rare to find a wholly predictable. Seldom is simplicity seen, yet it is simple enough to stare. Edit rough edges omitted smooth. Highlighted goodness and happiness. This sort of judgment can be found. Often, unavoidable.
Importance. Prevalence. Power that must be recognized by dominance. Hope climbing high into the air with trees, titans with subtle little minds, cherished thoughts uplifted, held out and free like charity and leaves let go of at the ends of seasons. Selfless. Endearing. Seldom seen for what it really seems, but for what it seeds.
Incredibly complex and selfishly. A gift better to give than to receive. In fact, power and strength, which I likened to trees, also have roots. Ants and flies and worms, climbing mammals and slow-crawling turtles lugging homes, all benefit from a lack of simplicity. The majestic, monarchal star ablaze in the spotlight of our sky, clouds, rain, mountains rebelling gravity and impenetrable obstacles asleep under rotted logs. Where is simple? Lowly? Creepily crawling forest floors. God of bright. God of massive. Clouds sparked and exploding, exhaustive radiation outward. Pressure. Gravity deep within. Molten smarts and iron whim.
I can not find a simple element in life. And I live simply. The soil is a novel. The blue roof a confessional poem. Rhymes and metaphors and simile bubble out steady like springs, until so many collect, pooled into analogies. Drowned rivers that slice the narrow banks of religion, philosophy, art. All emptied out into the ocean of Mankind, behind our complex staring eyes, within our imaginative plastic minds.
I have found simplicity. It is buried like a seed inside the benign produce of perspective.