When
the axis of this moving magma rock,
Our
living, water-loving habitat,
Tilts
a single slice away from Sol,
We only feel this 23 degrees of motion
As
the embers in the furnace grow faint and lose heat.
Being
a humanimal, with the X,Y
Co-ordinates
set to: 78, 42 – I terminate
Fully
a quarter of my conscious, waking hours
Beneath
Winters’ leaden skies.
A
necessary, yearly tax;
Paying
for an abundance of: rolling hills, leafy trees, screaming blue skies,
Crunchy apples,
refreshing lakes, wine-making grapes.
And,
every time this mighty rock does a full promenade, we are lucky enough to be
embraced
By
Sol in a 16hr long kiss. Flower petals fine tune their most attractive colors,
Annually
anticipating that…one…exquisitelyendlessseemingday.
On
my tilt-a-world, it isn’t so much that I mind the spinning,
But
nausea frequently crawls up my esophagus in those grey, frozen months;
Impossibly
void-of-bursting-greens.
Most
of this sentence is served
Shuffling
around boarded up bunkers of re-enforced sheet-rock
And
wrapping our selves in shrouds of plastic/rubber/nylon/poly-cotton/wool-blends.
Rigid containers,
lids screwed on too tight. Tension brews another pot of dark-roast coffee
And serves it with silent haste to Sterility.
However,
all seeds come equipped with a pod that shelters from the blight of a bitter gale.
Mine
is an artificial one – complete with an assortment
Of
dancing, colored lights and various, hand-selected bonbons.
So,
most of these violently shortened days,
I
seek my fill with somewhat reckless abandon.
Mashing
my closed fists against silicone buttons,
Sequences,
codes, a whole workable lexicon –
Oh,
the senselessly endless combination of symbols!
From
a certain angle, that seems like enough
To
keep me sluggishly distracted.
Eyes
at half mast, biding my time…
My
senses thaw as whatever small, veined, photosynthetic miracles
Rise
to the surface
Their
determined tendrils reaching away from the past,
But
remaining rooted there.
How
to explain?
Try
not to see it as: choosing to be stuck,
Psychologically fixed to a place,
But,
rather – emerging with momentous inspiration.
Breaking
through, shedding the shell and growing
Means
leaving some of our parts behind
And finding ways to flourish in spite of the pain.
When
Spring lives do reveal their presence,
Stretching
and lengthening after a season’s sleep beneath icy, white sheets,
The
significance of the Void,
The
power drawn, the potential energy gained
In
the midst of quiet absence, is realized.
Isolation
has taught me that
Dormant
does not mean idle.
