Between childhood and aging,
travelling and settling,
I know our time here is temporary.
Though the tides
tied everything together eternally,
moments rolling in the soft distortion
of ever shifting clouds.
Wanderers, caught by candlelight
become silhouettes
in the snow mansions
of a dissolving union.
All that is transitory
the sky would express lyrically
through the windows of
these communal rooms.
The sturdy peaks pierced through
the ephemeral,
leaving stars and mana
a milky residue
that through the passing
of glittering stones
carried
hundreds of miles
would construct walls
and floating cities.
From the dark of speculation
we’re guided by coral,
shaped by the invisible.
Behind a veil of questions
we’ll ponder reflections
and the abandon staring back
offers no explanation.
Nanmadol.
What remains of the past
an effigy,
an extension of ancestors and
the energy of creation.
We’ll meet in the intervals
of bones and breaking waves,
as true nature stays
parallel
sourced from the ocean,
the largest of liminal space.
Thirsty, the sedentary receives
swells from seasonal rains.
Unstuck from routine,
boats are cast adrift
towards Argos, Phoenicia and Pohnpei,
the disappearing remnants
of another yesterday.
Gliding past the monolithic canvas
walls that do not obstruct the silence
but give rise
to the vines that
obscured entranceways
and distorted time.
The surface
of canals give passage
to the strange light of torches
toying with the senses.
Moments adrift
and winds becalmed
in a labyrinth of choices
pressing forward
through the blanks,
the sunlight through the palms
looking for openings.
As the wind picks up again,
you’ll consider the will and the breadth
to what has been left
upon this petri dish
of life and death.
It tells a story often repeated,
of benevolence and dissolution
crossing over into myth,
that realm of the unseen
and the power
to move everything,
while waiting in the intervals
as always
for it to pass somewhere
between vibration and illumination,
it will be built again.
yakskinpocketnotes 