The universe is the only text without a context.
Through different trees, wind becomes different sounds.
The pines become the wind’s sound, here. I hear it.
Again the creek leads me along its seam, from my name.
Its artery opens out from trees, to a heart of water.
No identity will be time-honored. It will be time.
I feel mine. It is blood-honored. It is change-honored.
It is solitude’s language. It is oblivious sunlight
falling over leaves. Their ancient need greened to feel it.
Monumental time pairs into wings, flexing frail bones.
Wings open like meaning under meaningless sky.
Again geese lift from the pond I once knew well.
Their wings beat. Their harsh calls tear at the air
of my rising. We rise on our wingthrusts belonging
in our migration. In summoning’s wingwind, syllables
whisper through the rush of more slurring syllables.
The lines of being recite themselves. The primal poem
scores the lines of flyways through impulses born
knowing their courses, as creeks follow courses.
The one wing eclipsed the sky, wing of millions
of wings, shadow’s thunder of pigeons flown
gone into change-honor, accepted by change-honor.
The disembodying wind calls my embodied mind.
Time is the cadence falling. It falls calmly as light
over leaves’ incarnation, carnage, reincarnation.
The pond is left as ripples stilling, evaporating
from my knowing. My heartbeats count the tides
of blood’s migrations, pulses echoing out into older
iambics of nights beating into days, in the wordless odes.