I bask in the mad ovation of the trees
And drink the blue tonic of the sky.
The sword-thrust of afternoon rays
leaves me doggedly weeping through my eyes.
My soul, in a free-fall
Toward the horizon, has no response
To the manifold echoes of existence
But to shout pell-mell and create
Its own unintelligible echo.
Yes, this soul longs to return
To the friction of its fire,
To the first photon of its radiation.
The enigma it seeks to solve
Is its own creation. Where does one begin
When the universe is so vast
And the soul, like an arrow from the bow
Punctures everything, from the blades
Of grass beneath my feet
To the distant stars?
Oh, who, and with what tools,
Spun this wondrous mystery?
It wasn’t me. I was not present at the beginning.
Yet there is a mad inkling that says to me
That what lay inside—the ever-watchful protector
That knows death awaits my flesh
But keeps me yearning for more life anyway,
That sleepless mass of peace and understanding
That has no fear and answers to nothing,
Not even death—knows that what I am and what
I will become is all that ever was
And all that ever needed to be.
Such an answer makes me silent,
And grateful, and the great mad cacophony
Of echoes resonate as one
And bring me peace.
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