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.
the upward mobility
of water
Plummer’s Hollow, where I live, is cut into the northeast end of Brush Mountain, a typical long, low ridge in the folded Appalachians, raised above the valleys by differential erosion (and also shaped by periglacial processes during the Ice Ages). It would perhaps make more logical sense to talk of water’s downward mobility, but you know, I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now.
Photo taken from my front porch yesterday morning after the latest snowfall. I’m not sure what the name of this Snapseed font is, but it’s perfect for achieving legibility against a busy background.
the pond’s ice creaks
under her weight
from all the broken things I tried to fix.
the cattails shape-shift
into clouds
I crush another cathedral
with every step
Over the next four years, some words may freeze before they leave our mouths.
we watched for the flash of a nuclear strike by day, and by night, the mysterious lights of UFOs.
crops grow in the absence of sunlight, sexless and cold as an economist’s dream.
maybe I’ll molt.
