The earth is saying poems again
The earth is saying poems again.
From hospital window I see sun. I feel sun warm in blood. I hear bird. The call for likely mates. I sense warm. I feel galvanized. I notice the shake of wind in far trees. I touch down. I rejuvenate. The simple joy. The simple things. Of this to make happy.
All is primed. The jouissance of nonold newyoung life ready to go.
Zoom down below to where are flowers like flags before the off. The yellow, the red, the blue – precipitously teetering. Everywhere is a jumpful of starts.
Men and women, young or old, go by oblivious.
Zoom over to the far trees. More trees in hospital grounds soon to be planted. This -a Very Good Thing. Trees correlate to cure say Department of Health. Following surgery, those who see trees need less medication and have faster recovery times. It’s true. So over to farthest far tree I go to lay upon topmost strongest branch, nestled inside safe and secure, recovering within, one leaf amongst many.
The sunlight loiters upon pale pipes and creates shadow.
His mind goes away. Only 43. Not time yet. And yet time after all. The new Big Thing, the big All Prescient Now. Here to stay. A Time Is Up notice ready to be hung onto the back of his consciousness. Nothing to be done. All to be over with so soon. Returning to earth as a consonant maybe, or maybe a vowel.
To be part of the earth as a P or an O, an E or an M or an S.
A quick shot of sunlight again, out shining up the nearest things. Warm windows bouncing back heat into the room to fall into his eyes.
I look from where I am, out on the path as it cuts across, and people walking with legs strong as stalks pressed firm. I see what they are not seeing. To see it for them. I hear it for them. What they are not hearing. The cheering, the saluting. The flags, the poems.
Cloud moves over Sun.
He leaves again. Thoughts of departure without destination. He feels nothing. No more fear. No more arrival. No more seeing. No more saying. No more earth. No more sun.
Sun returns
