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10/22/11 - (1)
Late-October Meditation in the Botanical Garden
How strange, on this twenty-first afternoon of October, An exhilarating seventy-three-degree precursor To the freezing, empty-leaved trees' wintry indeterminacy . . .
How strange, indeed, that my beloved, singing, spring-fed stream, Which still meanders through the English Woodland copse, Is empty of the ichor it feeds into the Japanese Garden — Seiwa-en.
I realize that this time of the season is precariously late, And yet there remain myriad traces of nature's burgeoning urge To perpetuate itself, in the vibrant, robust flourishing
Of red, pink, blue, and white hybrid bigleaf hydrangeas, Aromatic asters, African daisies, dahlias, windflowers, Floribunda, tea, and shrub roses, the last of the gladioluses.
In this beautiful interlude of uncertainty and ambiguity, When twilights dim, into silence, earlier and earlier, And nights grow colder and colder, until they've frozen over,
I lose sight of to whom my spirit belongs, Why my soul feels as though, any breath, it might fly to death, Where my flesh and bones would sleep,
Were these serene days of fading autumn to abandon me, Deprive my shadow of its only true friend, Disengage from further dialogues with my poet's imagination.
Today's is one of those shimmering-in-ambiguity afternoons, Into whose crystalline design I disappear, Hoping, trusting, praying that if I do happen to return,
I'll assume the shape, the guise, the essence of divinity, Some intangible, invisible, ineffable, immaculate aura Capable of sustaining my nexus with whatever forever is.
10/22/11 - (1)
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