Gold in Wool

I was born where I will never return
my prism bends too many tones
the present ignores all directions but one
spun into wool is sunny gold.

On some simple level my life has been
an ignominious win-win but
if levels are as cheap and common as words
most truth lies between blurred and absurd.

What may and might be enrichens the sky
the literal breath sucks bones hollow and dry
when godly sap creeps up out of the soil
it finds the mind who is willing to toil.

How much of the weather or the ways of love
do most of us actually keep track of?
The bacteria in us may know more than we
ever will but they will never be as free.

The seen may range over or may range under
the unseen, their poetries are asunder
meant to be reciprocal but a lack of subtlety
reduces many stanzas to chastity.

If you don’t take time to take time days
go by years too and you are stuck in the maze
the watch on your wrist and clock on the wall
get heavy and walking shrivels to crawl.

They say time is money but watch for a while
and those two things get put in two piles
one if for paying off people and debts
one is best used to forgive and let live.

For every regret there are two delights
nature proffers us both days and nights
little work balanced by a lot of singing
selfishness cured by hard hand-wringing.

Thrown together by economy or warfare
we grapple with a brother’s appetite or honor
that entrenched closeness festers and fosters
the fever and chilling of oneness with sisters.

Which of you will sacrifice yourself for me?
The one who envisions what I cannot see.
Who is the boss never uttering a command?
The one who sits where no one will stand.

Accountable, culpable, I admit neither
handcuff is justified in my case ever
I did not kill god, that was my brother
or his trickster image in water.

Even a pond moves through its paces
time is found in the water of seven faces
or six or thirteen cycling down up in out
in flow there is only illusory unity.

Born at a stream’s edge raised in waves
hydrogen freezes oxygen blazes
educated out of the reach of solidity
finally dissolved beyond humility.

The spring in the winter understands
or at least behaves like it depends
on place of birth and parentage
to release itself from its bondage.

The foot is steady, the walk whimsical
the fluid fickle and the path unpredictable
my confusion strategic, my progress a pact
the gold in my wool was more than abstract.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s