Complete, just itself, finished becoming. Now: Is.
Fresh snowfields before birds and skiers come.
Young girl, young boy thrumming with power under
young skin, bursting with firsts, eyeing the other.
Woods filled to the edges with organisms of themselves:
vines-bugs-water-trees. No force from outside
changes the perfect moment. Yet.
And yet:
to destroy completion
is to spin the cycle back to becoming
until it is perfect again. For now.
Friday, March 5, 2010
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Another wonderful poem from you! Terrific images, and I love the phrase 'fresh snowfields.' And I love the ending, the cycle spinning back to becoming.
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