Archive for September, 2014

Season of the new cat.

Fall’s upon us,
laid that maple low.

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As the sugars rise and flow
and assign each leaf its brilliance,
it’s time for the changes.

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After two full years without a cat,
we broke our fast with Lilly, five years old,
rescued from a cross-country move.

Oh, she holds down a lap, chases a laser, meows a little,
but showed no interesting quirks of character.

Until the other night.

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We’re rethinking.

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Max, four German Shepherds back, used to bite water.
Had a few kittens who flirted with the shower drain.

Never had a cat who sits in running water.

Be ready to take it and run when you tell  the universe:

surprise me!

 

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Mushroom meditations.

Some emergent mushrooms are pulled up by the moon.

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Some by the sun.

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Or Mars.

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By Venus.

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Or by an Angel.

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Some tough and chewy, grapple on for the long run.

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Some are social, aligned like the seats in the balcony.

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Curtain rising, caught between my shadow and the sun.

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Death comes, from Pluto, in the end.
But the flies and beetles and the microbes settled in for a week of feasting.

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Up for a while, down for a while,
before long, up again.

Transformed, not ever ended.

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Rocks: it’s how they roll.

Rocks are not alive; probably this is true.

But life surrounds them on a living planet,
covers them, colors them, ever so slowly digests them.

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Even the crystals, all edges, vertices, flat faces.
What gives quartz its accuracy as a time keeper?
Not patience alone.

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Like some people, some rocks
you’ve got to scrape hard or crack apart to find what’s inside.

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The tree has been working here forty or fifty years.

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But what exactly is the exchange between these roots and these rocks?

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Surrounded since the beginning of the tree, or did they find a way to insinuate themselves?
Were they helped? By some necessarily quite short entity sharing the space inside?

Y’all stay with us, now.

 

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Mississippi blooming.

 A little dirt, a little water, processed through a bulb: an emblem perfect on a stem.

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Lower, where the tree trunk reaches into the earth, a golden dirt bloom.

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Lichen shelves, ascending fairie ladder.

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Puff. Ball. Woodland antiseptic.

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Either the rock grows larger, using it’s fungal affiliates as we use our microbioma.
Or the branch wears away the bottom while the lichens eat the top.
The plastered leaf may stay, may wash away downstream.

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Zooming out, the flow of the branch,
gentle today, going forever down.

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The mighty Mississippi waits, assured of what’s coming,
moves all its other work along and waits
as the Little Bald Branch runs into Spring Creek
down to the Pigeon River, down to the French Broad
pausing for the turbines at Lake Douglas, over the TVA spillway
at last to meet the Mississippi
riding down some more to New Orleans
into the Gulf of Mexico, tickling the frenulum of Florida
as it exits into the Atlantic
and sails the Gulf Stream north to the coast of Wales.

That’s it? Or sucked next under arctic ice,
pulled across and down into the deep currents of the Pacific?

Yeah, probably that.
Water like electrons will always go to ground.
The cycle unbroken.

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