sea-level pond no mountain top

Pond Song 3.76

 

There is an other origin beyond the origin in the self with its own inward otherness. GB 176

 

sea-level pond no mountain top__wind-polished light-carved waves

this wind kept me up all night__day breaks what light saves

 

sparrows sit low in pale grass__milky ice drapes the shore

sunglare glazes the mudflats__where shallows darken more

 

wind-shadows spark across__out where buffleheads dive

in summer there’s only one now__it drops from sight its absence excessive

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light fog gurgle of the culvert

Pond Song 3.75

 

Our opening to the surplus in the otherness of given being can be complexly articulated, even if it exceeds all the determinations of intelligibility we muster. GB 45

 

 

light fog gurgle of the culvert__a company man no more

sodden burnt-out autumn__the pond not far from my door

 

the smokey edge of things__creak of a wheeling seagull

work’s dull roar from the river__barge lost to the tide’s pull

 

ducks dabble water splashes__music must have its Sabbath

just doing nothing is festive__this could be Rome or Bath

playground screams from the see-saw

Pond Song 3.74

Poros names the making of a way. It names a transition that is no transition, since in making a way, it makes way . . . GB

 

playground screams from the see-saw__void the pond’s distance

backlit by broken clouds__back of a heron’s silence

 

ducks headdown in the shimmer__light is foregrounded

lithographic aquagraph__the primal nothing sounded

light over and beyond this light

Pond Song 3.73

 

The idiocy of the singular call is not the opposite of the universal. GB 37

 

Light over and beyond this light__green of a bucket abandoned

by the last high tide sits in it__chrome yellow of beach rose stunned

 

by it at the pond’s far edge__in between a flow of surfaces

mirrors crushed foil empty spaces__peeps’ thin call over this

 

harvest of autumn sunshine

Pond Song 3.72

There is a bite of the unbidden about the urgency that breaks up our smug self-satisfaction. GB 33

harvest of autumn sunshine__smell of rot after rain

dawn rakes the blue meanders__black in the glare a chain

 

no archipelago of ducks__I would make my peace with death

compromised the cobalt surface__cormorants splash from beneath