06/20/2021
(fragment)
1
All elsewhere being World,
how many times have I stood
in the bright shadows of a wood,
no track or trail leading in, out-
as though ground cover
renewed as I went through?
I sometimes own the moments where I stand
alone. Everything else is air
and arbitrary firings of neurons
we call memory if they happened,
fantasy if they didn’t- same pictures.
Call it prayer, then,
the moments where I’m not aware
even of how lovely the moment is-
not liking, not disliking-
not aware there is a moment
until I’m back in the world
and remember it- construct it
in my mind as having been beautiful.
4
I’m too often bitten by silence.
My mother called it dawdling,
the ex, brooding. My students call it
absent-minded professor.
The kindest students bring me back gently.
But I live most when silence,
shade, and light like this harvest me,
a kind of prayer I’m gathered to,
not the prayer I clutter with will or words.
