Poem #155
Recursion
There is something in the sound of the woodpecker,
in the weight of the moose shoulders,
that is also in the branching of the maple
and reflected in the roots below the green sea.
The cracking sound of beak on bark echoes
along the paths through the forest
that fragment at each moment of past indecision,
weaving in and out of this moment.
There is something in the school of minnows,
in the wildebeest migration across crocodile river,
swirling tadpoles in thunderstorm pond,
drying up into the sky that turns red then black then blue.
There is something in flowers—
each and every flower that unfurls and fades,
falling onto the ground under shadow—
that is like a memory, like a cloud of memories,
bright and brittle as each neuronal flash.