DRIED GLUE AND BIRD’S WINGS

Voices from the underworld. crackling
broken, unread books from the shelf
in that most frightened silence, that only momentary flight,
while your words pass the pear trees.

Before mind woke to itself,
while forest waited first blossom, near global,
what waited the first wing, - reptile and obscure -
And went soaring through the wind prepared for only
itsef?

I believe there were no flowers then, said Lawrence,
In the world where imagination flew before pollen
troubled the air.

I believe the waters reflected upon themselves a not-so-barren
world.

The tiniest mite of dust
grew uneasy, and moss prepared the soil, perhaps, star-gazing.
Probably it was enough to hold its breath
beneath the mountain.

We wander in our own forgetfulness.

Fortunately.

Pete, I'm not sure what the last two lines have to do with the rest of this poem, but I like the thought process nevertheless.

Les

I'd suggest we come from something so frightening that it is no wonder that half the brave are alcoholics out of recognition of that fact.

Aah, that makes sense.

Les