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From: poems at the end of time
if i do not release these white moths into the quarry,
the stones will not sense the tiny parachutes sailing by them in the sun,
even when those moths die within weeks,
their skeletons disintegrating against the rubble, the rocks are thinking of wings,
they are thinking of the wings that have passed by them,
they are thinking, perhaps one day they will fly,
they are thinking in the sun and the rain and the wind.
they are thinking with their glistening and their crumbling,
they are thinking of oceans coming forward into them and retreating,
they are thinking of sedimentary layers and fossilization for millions of years.
they are thinking of holding on and moving forward
they hold the skeletons of the moths in their cells and in their particles,
and the memory of the moths in their being,
so that one day when we pass by that ancient rock,
we place our hands on the side of the stone overhang
and without knowing why we are already weeping, we are thinking of flying,
do not despair, we too, will plant the seeds of love at the end of time,
this evolving universe takes what it needs into itself,
we are collected up and thrown like seeds and moths into the night,
where we will fly and think our way into a never-ending consciousness.
anything that has been born with wings will have to fly, and all who fly will fall,
we are the moths that the universe has released into the quarry of existence.
we are loved, and because we loved those moths, we fly like stones. |
