Hello Treeleaf-
I haven't said much, which is odd for me because I'm a writer and a talker. I chalk it up to being new here. But I have sat for 6 weeks twice a day which is something I've never been able to do in my solitary practice and I chalk that up to being here too. So the only way I can say thanks to everyone is by posting a poem I wrote. Poetry is just what I do. So here's a poem from a series where I'm focusing on my garden, which is a small somewhat fallow plot in Wisconsin.
Sutra of a Million Billion Fireflies
The greenness is yellowness is blackness,
So much blackness but nothingness,
The off firefly no different than the clay
clods dug up from breaking out the carrots.
No different the gray grass of twilight.
There is one firefly. There is one hundred.
Tonight, the space between
Is the same as the fireflies, the atoms of air
All bursting forth in flames, as it always is,
Molecular reactions to what’s moving in and out
Of space, silent conflagrations, and what even I
Am is space. Distances between my cellular
Atoms, and what makes subatomic particles, distances
There too. Myself, my known and unknown universe
One wide open space, the Great Plains of my anatomy,
And the wavelengths visual to me, failing, bring forth less and less
Colors in the meeker moonlight cloudless early evening.
There are two. And thirty. Or they’re moving.
Because that’s what fireflies do.
And what do I do? I watch.
I gently inhale the space into my space in between.
I haven't said much, which is odd for me because I'm a writer and a talker. I chalk it up to being new here. But I have sat for 6 weeks twice a day which is something I've never been able to do in my solitary practice and I chalk that up to being here too. So the only way I can say thanks to everyone is by posting a poem I wrote. Poetry is just what I do. So here's a poem from a series where I'm focusing on my garden, which is a small somewhat fallow plot in Wisconsin.
Sutra of a Million Billion Fireflies
The greenness is yellowness is blackness,
So much blackness but nothingness,
The off firefly no different than the clay
clods dug up from breaking out the carrots.
No different the gray grass of twilight.
There is one firefly. There is one hundred.
Tonight, the space between
Is the same as the fireflies, the atoms of air
All bursting forth in flames, as it always is,
Molecular reactions to what’s moving in and out
Of space, silent conflagrations, and what even I
Am is space. Distances between my cellular
Atoms, and what makes subatomic particles, distances
There too. Myself, my known and unknown universe
One wide open space, the Great Plains of my anatomy,
And the wavelengths visual to me, failing, bring forth less and less
Colors in the meeker moonlight cloudless early evening.
There are two. And thirty. Or they’re moving.
Because that’s what fireflies do.
And what do I do? I watch.
I gently inhale the space into my space in between.
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