Scattering black sunflower seed
like the eyes of words
out over the snow
for the squirrels.
high above the page
for an entrance on stage.
Food and empathic renewal,
fuel and the ferocity of life
a softer knife than the ice
because of my sweeping generosity.
I like to thaw things,
turn the brittle supple,
swords into the blades
of the wild irises
that burn like hydrogen
beside the stream,
snowmen that flow
out of themselves
until all that’s left
are the stones they relied on for eyes.
Stones have their clarities
is a very subtle kind of water
that knows reality is not solid
and the light of a single firefly
is hot enough
to melt the planet.
And then like early spring in Perth
when the snow goes
it’s November all over again.
I see everyone alone with themselves,
sad intimates of the shadows
that forsake them like evolution
the moment they cry out
like leaves on the stream to endure.
Maybe it’s one medium to the next
as we’re transformed
by ever more rarefied spaces
that denude us like light from our ions
into luminous bodies with auroral faces
that open like one-night enlightened lilies in the starmud,
or maybe it’s just the death-leap
of the next apple into the bottomless abyss
of a darkness deeper than death is aware of itself.
Conjoined again in the primordial atom
would we feel the same snakepit
and begin the universe again
by cracking out of the cosmic glain
like serpents with wings in the trees
to the fires above
and the waters below?
Or does one universe pour into another
like a waterclock of insight
that flows on forever
like a snake or a river
through the length of itself
like one inexhaustible thought
with its tail in its mouth?
If so, there’s nothing to know
because the whole and the all of everything
is in every seed I throw to the squirrels,
like the universe in these grains of sand
quick with life
that look back at me warily
like an unspoken rosary
of black-eyed pearls.
Worlds within worlds.
But if there’s nothing discrete
about a mind that can’t be defined
then why the distinction in the first place
and why these fingertips, these eyes, this face
that keeps on trying to see itself like the moon
from the water’s point of view
as if the urgency of the tides in the mirror
were the brides and the oceans
of its own lost emotions, reflected?
There’s more to feeding squirrels
than I suspected.