Saturday, December 10, 2016

revelations compete

tangled webs

some times are so burdened with poems
I can’t pick out an individual thread to follow,
for immediately I run into other threads
that call to me to follow them:
a jumble of possible paths all mixed together,

I think it’s like a problem we Quakers have
when we open ourselves to revelation
and so much clambers to be heard
that nothing seems to speak clearly,
a person can die and focus us true,
so can a sunrise, a sunset, a tree, a flower, a toddler:
then we might focus into singular clarity,

I come back to my mountains after unprecedented fire
took what the drought-dessicated woods gave it
and ferocious winds fed it,
those same winds wrenching limbs and trees asunder,
great clusters of clutter mock my expectation
of what was and what I thought would still be,

those interwoven piles of branch and trunk
so like the threads I first imagined
at the beginning of this poem.

by Henry H. Walker

December 8, ’16

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