A tree shoved by the wind creaks like a ship’s deck.
A gate rattles its latch. Birds announce every move
from branch to lamppost, broadcasting their bearings
from each new perch. You won’t find quiet outside
this time of year. Nor an orchestra. Nothing is ordered
enough for music. Some time ago some more attuned soul
knew these noises as ticks of another clock, but
the increments are too fine to be read from this distance
and our hands blur endlessly. Soon stars will
look down, marvel how beings so deceived
persist, and wonder—who will survive to look up
and ask what name constellations give themselves?
Filed under: Chaos, Culture, Doubt, Eschatology, Extinction, Fate, Hubris, Human Nature, Knowledge, Life, Longing, Musings, Names, Nature, Oblivion, Poetry, Science and Art, Society, Space, Summer, Thoughts, Time, Uncategorized
another gem–another favorite and the ending of this is fantastic
Thank you, and, while I’m at it, thank you for all your efforts on behalf of Poetry. You pump the blogosphere with such energy for writing poetry, and I’ve found so many wonderful writers through your emissary. —D