When the world was young
Or at least when I was young
Within it,
One of the worst first things I learned
While still in the womb, was
Wall building as a way of willfully
Withdrawing. She showed me this
She didn’t know what else to do.
I plowed into the world like
A plow into the earth, heedless
And headlong, held back by very little
And then, increased throttle, or
Lift the plow a little. If only I knew
About keeping my wheel in the furrow!
“Pay attention”
“If he would only apply himself”
Each year another teacher added
Their voice to that choir. The vibration of that shook nothing loose.
It seemed to make it tighter.
One day while playing in an end
-less snowy field
Like a sheet of unwrit paper
I came across a line.
(Thankfully not the way my cousin
Adam did, on that snow covered shakamaxon golf course 1979)
One side is the world, as it is.
Ontologically. The hand,
The wall that won’t go through it.
It’s solidity is fleeting and ephemeral
It’s emptiness is so full.
That is where my muse’s house is.
Watching people cross the threshold
(Not the threshold to my muses house, or maybe it is)
This poem is big enough to house more than I can say
More than I can know. The act
Of paying attention is the cost
And the cross
-ing of the threshold.
I’m rushing to the end
To close these lines
To forget about the line
And hide in sleep.
I don’t want to hide anymore
20230504 followed a few fellow poets around, bounced from blog to blog and wound up at https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/?m=1 then this fell out of me. Yay! Good to read some old friends again
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