that we might go back to: frog pond, mating ball of snakes, coyote song, hummingbird battle, voice out of the whirlwind, tectonic rhythms of the planet… everything is primal or nothing is, given the cosmos’s mania for recycling.
Some thoughts toward a rite of spring. Obviously not a haiga, but I had a photo and a mind fart that seemed to go with it, so up it went on Instagram + Facebook. Then I remembered there’s an Epigrams and Conundrums category here.
distant, keeps odd hours. A foreigner, regarded with a mixture of bemused tolerance and mistrust.
This is a proverb from some far-away land where the Peter principle does not apply, and only the least competent are entrusted with the most important jobs.
it would be useful to have an unblinking third eye to keep track of the sun.
there’s so much less fornication than at the encampment of the saved.
we forget after a while that they aren’t the horizon, that their trees don’t go on forever, that the sky is wider than we can know.
who kept giving me forms to fill out.
to rescue children drowning in a river. One of them has already grown fins and a tail.
No pain, no gain, he makes me hiss through a throat stretched thin as a telephone line.
why doesn’t it pool underground
like a reservoir of eternal summer?
Why don’t the green, leaf-shaped katydids
turn brilliant colors before they die?
When lovers intertwine, why don’t they fuse
like roots from adjacent trees?
If a human falls in a city and there are
no trees around, does it leave a hole?
