Inspiration and Action
Late on a winter morning, when through my window
Deceptive sunlight belies the frigid cold,
I hear a retinue of birdsong on whose shoulders
The feathered, colorful, migratory reach
Of responsibility brushes the bristles of thought.
I pause, as though suspended like the steel cables
Of a bridge that crosses a body of gleaming longevity.
The horizon, filled with bare branches, bare sky,
Barely covers the expanse of hibernated longing,
And my hands reach back into summer
To touch the flora and fauna that inspire seasons.
More sunlight, more song leeks into my room
And mixes with the filth I’ve neglected to clean.
A rush of cold air makes me dizzy with existence,
The erotic interplay of wakefulness and awareness.
As I step out into the world my shoes mingle with snow,
And my breath audaciously carries itself skyward.
In dilated, cerebral veins, a kite of sugar
Gyrates in the wind of synapses and electrochemicals.
A foreign force presents a passport, pleading permission
To enter the guarded gates of mystical musings.
Reticent, yet proud to have shirked my duty in favor
Of foraging the forests of history for vials of vitality,
I open the door and get to work.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
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