The wind comes.
Be still,
no matter how much
the contained
wants to spill —
a black and boiling smoke.
Withhold all movement,
and feel what fuels it —
our sorrowful, severed nature.
And the fruit may be bitter, but We cannot taste it.
And the air may be toxic, but We cannot smell it.
And the alarm may be constant, but We cannot hear it.
And the star may be fading, but We cannot see it.
And whatever is Present, We cannot touch it.
And wherever we are in space, We cannot sense it.
We are sleeping with the bats, now —
Plato’s cave.
What we might have become no longer is,
and who cares, anyway?…
And who cares, anyway?
So it harm none, do what thou wilt.
Tempered, temperate —
be still to see it:
shadow, broken bone,
and the healing beyond it,
or the forever falling further.
Meaninglessness either way.
But still…
Be still.
The cold wind comes.
looking for roots 