December 14 by The Running Son
‧❣‧‧ A tear‘s tale ‧‧❣‧
One tear, within it’s sphere, can capture and display
all energy around. But drops, fearing the fall, no doubt
send sound-rings out depth-charging; measuring
water-tables, tracing identity pathways to webbed interiors,
infusing logic-trees to calculate moisture probabilities,
engaging passing tears, inquiring about separation
anxiety in color families, about alpha vibrations metastasizing,
and the chain-reaction that was left, concentric and hungry,
in the kinetic wake of our postnatal slap; one scream,
and impact waves reacted with speed, undoctoring
original stillness! A black tap-root business, that.
I still burden rainfall scenes and mists; those memory clouds
seeking forgetfulness via immersion, draining out to space
and deoxygenating before retiring, earth-snug
and safe beneath an unbroken mirrored membrane surface.
In the old waters, light-bending spirits tear up
with union-bright ease and dignity, expanding with moisture,
molecular-wet at each reunion; puddling together
yet somehow free-streaming, reflecting everything,
the universe globed—beaming!
Finally, this whole prism is covenanted.
In spectrum and together.
Lagging prodigal colors have now crested the final rise.
Off the chin’s tip, a tear, pooling, drips;
into found silence.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.