Continuing to Write

PERISTALSIS


I.

Without motion, without movement
Internal storms brew violent and pass.
Puddles pool and ripple, reflections wavering constant,
Sliding focus. Now the figure, now the trees, now the startling, brilliant
Sky-clouds inching casual and full of grace.

Peer, intent, unflinching, in. Search the blurring, shifting
Worldish pantomime. Find what is there, what is hidden,
What explains. Parse this arch, invisible spectrum cloaking
The truth, what must be

{It has to.
It has to.
I won't believe this is the way.}

What more does the mirror know? What does it see
When not being watched? Like a dog resting content, nose tucked
Moist between couch leather and pang leg, it knows and will not say.
Staring dumb, expectant and receptive, it does what it is told, and apes what it is shown.

The leaves tremble on liquid branches. They age and die. They fall.
It happens as it has and will. Leaves scatter in the breeze, casual
And full of grace, catching in the fresh-mown sod blanketing
your grandmother, whose laugh would halt the globe. Those precious
Seconds ripple out from the center of the puddle, broken now by rain
Blurring your shimmering observation, nourishing
The parched and patient lawn.