42 Dorfstrasse

I spent the sunset speaking with trees,
watching the grass walk itself into patterns
way beyond what should exist,
a kind of order in disorder, a signal
in the turbulent flow, some strange attractor
drafting the fractal infinite itself
as all the leaves wandering with wind,
wind themselves in ways that look similar
but mean something utterly different,
something like the robin’s call,
at once chaotic and constrained,
like all the best music, coursing through
my blood which seems no more
than a beautiful and tragic attempt
to channel the disordered waterways
into something temporarily coherent,
one weird wanderer thinking this
is all there is…

Only to wake again and wonder here,
to wake and wonder again and again and again,
over and over down the same path which,
once walked, must be forgotten
so that the world can be renewed
and we can keep waking up, blown apart
into ten thousand better things, all one,
and the woods – lovely, dark, and deep –
through which the fading rays roll
aglow in golden symphony as there,
by the lake, the wild geese ghost
across the surface, the water not trying
to hold their image, but giving it back
for the time that the two come together,
before the autumn evening settles
and the greywhite V moves on,
in search of summer and longer sunsets
where trees talk and the world comes together
into this broken thing once more, always this,
as if I ever could forget.

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