Poem 148

sunday

I don’t shy away from silence
we’re different that way… not better
just different. I wouldn’t dare imagine
what bright white you’re hearing
outthere allalone, with your hands
pressed together—little walls
around a universe just small enough
to understand—I am surely mistaken.

We’re different that way, different enough
to quietly agree on smaller things: weather
changes and fresh cut blooms are best
when we are alone in silence I can hear
the unfolding of infinite petals, each
takes a small insignificant breath before
becoming something actual. You hear
words-not-real-words-the-words-of god.

I don’t have ears for god.
We’re different that way.

Not better, just different… I’m glad.

—ECW

Poem 85

written in the back of a book just recently tapped, about our tree

Some are to climb trees–i suppose–when the wide earth licks up wise
branches and invites you in. i meant to climb this tree (as i have
1000 times) and look upon the leafing; the hairline sap splinters–  below. but no.
the ants among her too studious to disturb  and instead settled among
the short hairs of the in between spaces. not branches, not roots. in between:
a compromise of the all seeing & unseen. some mortal spaces where I can
devote the hour between four and five to the quick slap of a turned page,
a passing dog, a frisbee, and the optimistic flatulence of a tuba in the music building.
Bare feet bare minds–rooting in hopes that below in the unseen,
untapped soil of the wide earth our toes might intertwine…
–ECW

Poem 85 RevisedPoem 85 Edited