Origination

Did it begin with a woman?  Her voice?
                           Her dreams?  Some days, I don't believe this, though
                                                                         some days I do.  Years wasted busy,
                                                                                                origination, a hard recall
but vigilant of winter,
fall, behind,
            I am cradling
this single
vision-
tissue-
           thin, transparent.
It responds to song;
                          spreads like favor or like a flower, baits
                                                                          with visible
                                                                                           echo of
sound
and then
bits of wool take flight
and wistful
mist of past
creates and cleanses
               sight.
Now learning silence, remembrance vibrant,
spherical,
the discipline grounding....
          though I'm bent to
wander.
Vagabond that I am and
sent here with feet,
I want
                                   wings,
glitz of angels,
and
command of comportment.
My flesh craves
           notice
but this
wilderness is void of viewers.
   I bow
anyway and
God chuckles at my Shirley Temple antics.
                                   His delight
                                         draws me back
to ponder,
master posture.
Did it begin with a woman?  Her voice?  Her dreams?  Garden, barn or castle?
                                                                                                                      Some days I sense more sumptuous
diversion, manipulative
whispers slithering
      in and vacuous eyes but
               the tree
is withering, fruitless.
  Some days I strive against base being
              and the wiles of noise,
pray for an undepraved heart and ready womb
               and find myself a coward.
Only this sliver of vision still tapping,
 steady and
              steadying,
flaunting hope
              allures.
Vivacious face about,
I chant along-
short,
sweet repetitions
until I remember and know.

The Sunday Whirl