Short bursts of breeze in the long leaves,
the slightest of eddies as though
their pulse were pumping actual red cells
through the tall margins of the field—
Likelier that their real nature as flammable,
short-lived bursts of vigorous and
violent life, destined to flame
up, out, leap to cosmic oblivion, and die—
Are these our guides, or are
they mirrors of the flimsy, volatile existence
that we share? Only there, in
the margins of the field, do the flames
and shadows of our being have
a moment’s sway, for better or for worse,
of honesty out in the sun. Only there,
where the grass grows tall and yet
has not the strength or
depth of root to thrive, do we
see how little of the energy
with which we’d credited ourselves
really shines for longer than
a short, weedy season, bending
this way, bending that, and sparking
into sudden flares of incandescent
death
before returning to earth,
extinguished without
having distinguished ourselves, yet still
flying a bold red flag as if
Beautiful!
Tack så mycket!
kram
kram! 🙂
Sharp striking word choices – good match to the image’s lines and colors
I’m glad you enjoyed it all. On re-reading just now, I hate to admit I almost hear drumming alongside, like the Beatnik club poetry of yore. 😉 But I still kinda like it. Guess that tells you something about me, eh! 😀