^z 13th February 2023 at 8:56pm
| A person's time on Earth is spent Not in a straight line, but a bent Progression of trajectories. One first is spider-silk on breeze, Threads set adrift by parents who Have minimal control or clue Of what genetic forces they Release during a roll-in-hay Unconsciously conceptive act Of passion, love or simple fact. (A crass process to contemplate, But one which ne'ertheless our fate Condemns or blesses us to try If our own line is not to die.) So starts a life: a random mote, Potential energy afloat In seas of possibility. But soon what seemed completely free Has settled, put down roots, and grown Into a pattern, flesh and bone: A bonsai sculpture, shaped by force; Limb, twig, and leaf pursue a course Defined by the environment Plus countless influences sent From families and societies. Now in the forest of these trees Which constitute the living world So many plants are crippled, curled Into burnt matchstick shadows of What could have flourished given love, More tender care, and fortune kind. Some lucky few, however, find Themselves well-placed in soil and light To thrive and grow in beauty bright. Then at their death they sublimate Into a subtle, diffuse state Of deeds and words, or flame and air. We breathe their thoughts and sense their care As gifts which they have left behind — Crystalline structures of the mind. |
Saturday, December 09, 2000 at 11:18:44 (EST) = 2000-12-09
(correlates: AppearVersusIs, PreemptiveDisclosure, IdeasLikeSparks, ...)