At Moments, It’s Uneased
What else to give, in harmony with conviction,
announced inside? Robust assertions, along a threaded path, it hurt more to
walk away. Same principles. Different grounds. Similar reasons to stay.
Indebted to humans, embedded in memories, most have virtue. I’m swimming in
clouds, watching myself, with much more to believe: impetuous eyes, fastidious
ears, temple silence.
I forgot to undo a feeling, its language, its
software; most charmed to waft a kite, and string a cello, fluting and
intrigued with listening.
Bringing hearts to violin—meaning much in silence, so
present, so vocal.
I knew it as it came to pass: I realized, I shouldn’t
know these things; to assert, and it appear, most unacceptable cantaloupe.
Speaking to soft music, palming a lyre, asking at some
distance.
I’ve discovered—people ask science: its brilliance, its detachments, its lights.
Time or Person Will Unlock It
Under possession of seaweeds and wilderness and wines;
sung for uncertain, staring into horizon; most don’t know, something is left to
moods and mansions and motion; so engraved by adolescence, seeking, searching,
eating doctrine, sullen into skies.
Learning as sounds touch ears. Never tiring those
days. Feeling as others in feelings. Needless to assert invisibility. Most
carry a few hunches. I watched how she went through it—water was different—wind
had meaning.
We do
such a thing as we do not do. We chime soundlessly—motion moving into
stillness, it’s apparent what can’t be spoken.
I
understood air, I thought—years revealed, at best, I understand pockets of
information. I see as elements
appear, no one listens to that. It has an opposite tinge.
Nannies
sit and crochet patiently. Eating is human. It centers as a workpiece. Nannies
cook to keep home.
It’s unique at minimal; sunshine is different. Everything becomes deeper. Taste is enhanced. Gods in each other—greet one another. Some hold such against others. In notion, another is upset, one might feel left out.
Architecting
The building required an architect. We all knew it.
Who would build, brick for brick? I didn’t contend for builder; I was quite too
young. We’d watch the architects—more arguments, strange looks. Years would
pass in alarm. Buildings were not sturdy. The fabrics would witness—most tragic
art, penalty for love, most addicted eagles. To soar in distress—to sit in
sadness, determined to dig deeper.
More is architecture, broad, big buildings, narrow, demanding paths; in
song—we praise architects—by challenge of meadows, by rain, sleet, or snow—to
live in construction, headed for deconstruction, trying to negotiate with
architects, becoming said architects. As spirit, the art is building, laying
foundations, musing on the work of palms. To create music in structure,
becoming what was built, all-together excited to build.
