It’s wearisome! And the Queen, the Sorceress who lights her fire in the pot of earth, will never tell us what she knows, and what we are ignorant of. — Arthur Rimbaud, After the Flood
Yesterday,
a wind tore through
my state.
Today I survey
the damage
the loss
of trust
in the day’s patterns.
So much
fragility
is hidden
by routine,
a shield
of the commonplace,
so easily shattered
by the simplest mischance.
And now,
I stand in silence
studying the ground
at my feet.
A leaf
trembles
then falls
through the still air.
I tremble
in doubt,
then look up
as if
expecting someone;
yet
only cicadas continue
to grind through
this unrelenting heat.
I come to a slow understanding
of this world
I have folded
myself within.
( June 2012)
