Back in my ink and paper days
while waiting for the first or next black word
the white page sometimes seemed
a seething texture of possible forms.
Now i think this light is the womb of all poems
dreams, gods and the notions we attach
to nouns and names we use to
divide the Inconceivable
into seemingly separate things.
In June the kids run round the play room
shaking tambourines and singing Jingle Bells
not yet knowing
what all the word sounds mean.
We learn the names that name the parts and learn
that they are parts of larger parts
from hand to body to humanity to biosphere to universe
what is the ultimate part and
what it might be part of.
At that point adrift in emptiness
most draw a circle around the parts that matter
and seldom trouble their sleep with the thought
that what is everywhere is also right here
in each local and supposedly ordinary thing.
Like a yellow snail on the stem of a dandelion clock
bristling with parachutes awaiting the breeze
that will send them sailing thru blue light
bearing their seeds of inconceivable fire.