Sep 2015
All day I do nothing.
My waving arms and pulsing brain
keep me empty.
What uselessness, me.
Before dark, when cool air rushes
from the bay, I water my garden.
Monday I covered chard seeds
in a dark prayer blanket.
What can tiny stone-like
objects do in the sea
of black fertility, but hide
cold, invalid, and scornful.
Maybe they can dream and
forget this earthly destiny.
All night I toss covers,
as if African hills have twisted
and lifted the
valleys between them.
Is anything worth my awakening?
At dawn I see marvelous unfurlings
conquered darkness
while I slept!
My waving arms and pulsing brain
keep me empty.
What uselessness, me.
Before dark, when cool air rushes
from the bay, I water my garden.
Monday I covered chard seeds
in a dark prayer blanket.
What can tiny stone-like
objects do in the sea
of black fertility, but hide
cold, invalid, and scornful.
Maybe they can dream and
forget this earthly destiny.
All night I toss covers,
as if African hills have twisted
and lifted the
valleys between them.
Is anything worth my awakening?
At dawn I see marvelous unfurlings
conquered darkness
while I slept!
This poem is about sleep and awakening to new creations. The reference to "Africa", for example, signifies where a new man awoke long ago from out of the wrinkles of the old. What we sleep on grows within us in the darkness, much like seeds planted and covered in prayer.
