1988
“...like the leaves themselves turning...”
1.
Rising to the surface,
this questioned self,
a face of nature, juxtaposed
to this inner world, and between--
the play of light,
shapes and delineation
among the leaves.
making what was wanted of life
to see even a glimmer
in watercolor.
a glimmer of the original
light, yellowing.
striping vibrations
of life and death.
A surface hardened by repetition
becoming by shade
meaning less, distanced like Art.
it is a poem of cycle like
the weather, the seasons--
life itself, civilizations
returning hope
in another revolution,
drawn through
the dazzle of leaves.
spectrum of shade,
the reason of the psyche
in the shadow
coming out of the ground
moving against the stripe
rejoining, in another shape...
he made a giant,
what he desired to be,
from the abstract and
molded to human form, cycling--
through full consciousness, blooming--
immersing oneself
into a space, opening and
dying into--
the sea, recalling memory of
the icy blackness,
water rushing under bridges,
dancing lights
far away, that arm waving...
12.
he murmured something
of the falling leaves--
and turned the pages
forgetting
13.
That’s what Art was,
who struggled beyond
that despair
painted the flower,
the leap, tugging
harder, now longer--
coming, jumping from
the water almost free...
14.
going over the shapes
of our minds, forming
the world,
what we can see.
The merging of mind and object,
to fall into
the privileged moments,
as spots of time,
becoming part of, parcel,
a transparent eye, seeing--
the flower becomes one with the stars.
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