A Southerly Route
Think of the generations of hands that have held bread,
Mouths that have tasted it. Bread nourishes the past.
When we break it at table, we eat with other mouths.
Should I be saddened, or jubilant, that the Chopin playing
Through my iPod earbuds can alter the world around me,
Bring Parisian rain and lindens to a street of towering steel?
Geneticists claim we move to the rhythm of nucleotides.
Whát I dó is me: for that I came. An owl’s circular face
Is meant to glean fields of mice beneath a half-opened moon.
In the long stalk of my spine I discern a boyish faith.
My callused feet point to many sleepless nights ahead.
My hand says stars perish, but my lips say the winds go on.
Samurai composed verse and kept crickets in wicker cages
For the pleasure of song. Today’s warriors are brokers,
But the samurai’s katana still cleaves the air in their lungs.
O little sorrow song, you’re teaching me to feel peace again.
The sea-ice of thought opens, and my prow edges forward
On a southerly route that has been blocked for years. |
