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

10:00 AM