A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
An unwilled force
drives pale shoots
into the air. Something powerful
underneath it all, harder
than a fist, keeps making things
rise, until they burst
out of nothing into a green becoming.
But why? And what for?
What does it mean to have
mud become flowers,
and weeds, a tree starting out
on a journey of pale roots,
a few buds that ripen?
Come fall, everything’s exhausted,
turning orange, dark brown
until the whole thing collapses
into fallen leaves. Then nothing.
A bed of rotting questions
ready to be buried under snow.
In the ultimate darkness
a metaphysic works its meaning out.
Something requires that idle
grains mingle, merge atoms,
combine minerals, add moisture,
the worm’s breath, the break down
of certain acids, as a stem strings
together molecules in a dark room,
stirring combinations until it elongates
like an erotic muscle, sliding
through the fragile underworld.
Where does it get its motives?
This tiny square of garden
in the far corner of the yard?
I wish it would reveal its hand,
show me a reason why spring
comes at all, what purpose
summer serves before its energy
is spent, and all things wilt
and come apart, fall awry in
a tragic experiment.
Copyright 2017 Paul Christensen