Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: The Self is Unknown”(David Hume)

Photo by Gilmer Diaz Estela on

But I believe I shape sensibilities, invisible
but able to visualize through tunnels without
beginning or end, to catch the salty essence
inside a planet’s breeze and these other-
world palms that brush the clouds with

aqua-tinted fronds in this ebbing and flowing
dream of seasons and curving lands, this
curtain of loss and gain, drawn across
a cracked window frame, as we gaze
ahead to mark the evergreen surge

of power to locate the source of energy
that pushes the will and wheel of motion
in some similar way the horses in the pasture
stretch down their long necks and elegant
manes and flow into the seedy stems

to merge with roots of grass—raising heads
to gaze across the mirrored pond to visualize
our designs, and above, speckled eggs
fallen from the osprey nest with fledglings
scared to fly into twilight where we heard

the whoops of whip-poor-wills that sends
spooky echoes into a forest’s invisible belly,
and there’s mist growing inside cooling breezes,
when the afternoon’s honey fades into
twilight and dusk—then the closing of the night.

What is my source to step on up and act?
The spark that turns my wrist and pushes
the button on my phone to take pictures
of orange leaves, green, and rough rinds,
like my hand, the five petals on a citrus

blossom that assume their transient
form flowing from hidden canals
of juice that jettison through the secret
roots of orchards and fruiting groves
and flowers that supply combs of honey.

Tart, this inspired force, this striving to crank
up motion to manifest design into infinite
animations across a lop-sided spherical
universe of concentricity, a paradoxical
place found only in a contrasting space,

where we had no choice but to land
our aircraft and live inside trees and leaves,
A complex place to invent and honor
our cliches and our Roman-lettered
gods to whom we prayed—to give us
a life of lands without scrubs of hinterlands.

No one knows what sparked our motion, nor
where the current of our veins will run, but we
trust the flow will propel us on to many moons
and Mars, and with our divine-imagination fuel—
to fertile planets and diamond-studded stars.

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