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| Jardin de Luxembourg, Paris. October 2010. |
Did they die verse unwritten or
did they refuse to have themselves strait-jacketed into form, into structure,
how much of a leaf do you truly admire outside the canopy of the tree, or do
you find verse in its free fall, its cascade into the heap that gets swept
away, billowing into playful clouds and then melt into dust, until the next
season of appearance, an appointment you are never fully aware of, that chances
itself upon you, like that half glimmering side of the suncatcher that you
happen to pass by, that for a fraction of a moment glints your eye, and you
think what was that sparkle of light, the sun? It was attention that thing we
fall short of, like the beauty we reflect upon in hindsight, like the cool
shade of the canopy of the tree, and never the leaf or its veins in itself, it
is the legion of recollections that flood in, billowing into playful clouds and
then melt into dust.
(Penned Nov 9, 2013)
