Monday, May 20, 2024

Bird, Branch, Sky

The bird sits on the black branch
growing into the pearl-gray sky.
Or does the winter sky sit upon the bird,

the branch upon the sky?
This mystical geometry simply appeared
from nature’s morning mind.

The branch splits into finer versions of itself,
fractals that open a door to infinite quest
while the bird spreads its Rorschach wings,

balancing the magnetism of east and west.
But the sky knows only the thoughts of God
and is perhaps the father of this evolving trinity.

The bird suddenly bolts, takes wing
from its temporary still-life perch
as the branch recoils, contemplates, quivers,

clouds now twisting into the strangest of rivers.
What response can be made to these particles-turned-wave?
What can be made of bird, branch, and sky?

The beggar, king, prophet, and seer
can only weep for joy in December’s nave,
can only launch through parted lips a most ecstatic cry.

~William Hammett

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