All week I’ve been asking myself:
What value is there
that some unnamed mind-layer
registers this nutmeg wind
these invisible hoof prints
on my living room floor
these rising storms
before they ever meet the horizon?
We’ve had 5,000 years of poetry
and the world is still getting worse.
I am not Atlas.
Maybe this is what Lady River meant
when she said I would become
an unknown cloud in the desert
being blown about by breezes
the world of man no longer even sees.
Have I reached the end of poetry?
Have I reached the trailhead of entering full-anonymity?
someone burn all my names in a fire by the river.
Since poetry comes to me from upriver anyway
perhaps it can just flow on
of its own accord,
part of the tapestry.
Those who are listening for it in the first place
will receive it in their own way.
How’s that for non-attachment?
The wandering clouds and orphan-scholars talk about acceptance.
Perhaps I’m having my first real deep draught of it,
here, toward the end of the Anthropocene.
Thank you, O Precious Cup of Life.
I’ve had my fill tonight.
(c) 2019 Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com