Distillation of Gravity
Within every street and road in this town
lies the memory of a multitude of dead rivers and streams
when it all comes to a close, will there be eyes bright to perceive
darkness in and amongst radiance and little lights, sagas and short stories,
or road trips and long-lost recipes of grandmother’s still, secret ways?
Trouble is, the latches no longer work
and each door and window opens wide with every breeze
or even slight nudges from passersby-
and while those with scruples and puffed religiosity
pass by without a clue to what lies within
this crumpled, foreign threshold on the future,
grass grows wild in the pastures of our neighbors.
Indeed, while gravity becomes only a theory when harnessed generously,
like relaxation on a summers day It waxes cold and wan and joins with evening
overpowering the next dawn as would a rancid walnut
bitterly hidden in a protective shell would ruin an absent-minded snack-
and, in fact, we are pulled toward Earth’s center only as far
as soil, rock, and astral dust will allow and only as far as imagination
accelerates the diamond drills.
It’s best to choose well one’s convictions, as we do our children and DNA;
a feast spread upon a mossy, hollow log in the glade
beset by mosquitoes, bears and the wind from the East (to name a few).
We are given much, and as it is to be expected
that each course lasts only a few seconds before dissolving into dust,
thick gravy, or disappearing completely,
so choose your chair and track as you might an instrument of your undoing
while remembering that every road was once a river, and every street a stream,
and hopefully your eyes only will see the light made at the end,
and yours will becomes the recipe’s secret as the unlatched door swings wide.