Sunday, July 05, 2009

Water Cycle
written April 4, 2009

I am that wisp of cloud
that floats slowly through the blue of the spring sky,
slowly enough to look at the details of the landscape below.
I gaze longingly at the pond
where water lilies, cattails, and lotus
are sending up their green shoots and tendrils again,
or at least dreaming about it.
It is not time for my molecules to condense and fall there as rain;
no, I will go on to admire
two handsome black ravens scratching in the grass.
They, too, are fliers in the sky,
and they join me for a time
before they are distracted by crystalline glimmers
from someone’s backyard chimes.

I move on, impeccable in my wordlessness,
delighting in my formlessness,
my vapor shifting with some stray breeze, some changing current of air.
I take the shape of a smooth stone,
of a clump of moss,
of the fertile cloud of milt spreading over fish eggs suspended amidst lake weeds.
I am fertile – ideas fill me;
they dwell within each atom.
They shine like stars or like the sparkles of sunlight on windswept water.

I see a woman hanging sheets out on the line,
singing softly to her children,
a special song,
setting up a vibration in the air that transmits itself
into every atom of hydrogen and oxygen forming me,
as well as those of the surrounding air.
The delicate but powerful force of her love
travels miles.
I smile as I float above with her love resonating in me
as if I, too, sang that song.

Moisture condenses and falls from me
until I am that cloud no more.
I do not take it personally –
change has come to me as it must.
Now I push between blades of grass, clods of soil,
on my way to a stream.

I quicken my pace as I sense the nearness of a broad river.
As I join it, I am aware
that this journey will lead to the ocean.

I have missed the ocean.
I need to hear its constant motion,
feel that circular flow, warmed by sun and cooled to drop down to the depths. Will I be thrown up on the beach in a symphony of breaking waves,
or carried far out to travel to another land?
Will I be lifted up out of this liquid home, evaporated again?
Will pollution stagnate me, hold me hostage,
sensing only the absence of the vibrations of life?
Will I ever reach a place in this world
where it is cold enough for me to experience freezing,
or has the earth passed that point?
I long to feel that low and slow vibration of a solid
that floats in the ocean,
but perhaps it is not to be.

Perhaps I will once again live the dream of a woman.
I make no assumptions, but instead question
what that dream will be – the concert pianist, the passionate dancer,
the contemplative monk, the thinker and writer
who changes the course of events in the world?

Or will violence end my life in those cells?
Will an accident stop me before I can have any effect?
Will a bullet from a combatant’s gun
or refuse from a terrorist’s bomb deflect my force from its true goal?

The sun sets.
I do my best to return to the now,
to the love and light that propel me
to merge with the indigo line at the eastern horizon.

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