Lily pads in our pond –we lend each other buoyant
dreams of a before and after
and beyond – amid our
droplet punctuation
which suggests itself
when for whatever reasons
we experience propensities
to search for sense:
concatenate our fluid blips
into a sort of mental picket fence –
segmented linearity which keeps
our thisses from our thats
by means of metaphoric slats:
dividing our defining
parts: illusorily starting,
stopping: in the mist of which
we, ever the guessing pests,
nevertheless believe
at least provisionally.
Lily pads in our pond
quiver over us into eternity
and seek fraternities
of frogs, amphibious
arrangements of stark
bits of spatter. If energy
is matter then a lily pad,
what rides on it, and what
it floats on, all have
much to recommend them
as a pantheon of possibility:
live stasis and the freedom
of way-station: gracious link,
a kind of godly wink of
reassurance: and the prospect
to a frog of rest – a part
of that implicit test which all –
droplets, frogs and lily pads –
must take and solve in order to
effect incarnate life’s resolve.
.
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