The moon,
A broken saucer
Falling through space
Or
A silver scimitar resting on its blade
If you wish to say so,
Yes,
If you so wish,
Because how you see the view
Is how you see the view,
And anything I say will not alter your perceptions.
We are all prisoners of what our eyes and ears report,
Plus the limitations of our native languages,
Sound bites we automatically use for thought.
Meantime I note that Jupiter and Venus look like dirty snowballs
Deep in the glistening cold late winter darkness
Of a cloudless February sky.
"Know you are made of dust and to dust you will return",
Yes, star dust in fact, yet we rarely make time to believe this.
I put down my wartime binoculars
Fascinated by the taut notes of a harp
Stinging through the deep unnerving darkness
With an unexpected rapidity, that too soon degrades the sound.
Old icicles melting so fast
That the sounds of the harp strings flatten
Into a dull music I have rapidly ceased to hear.
Spring is now just a heartbeat away,
Yet the beauty of the moon and planets this evening
Nearly stopped my heart as I stared in awe struck wonder
Into a dazzling infinity that is also an abyss.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
February 24th. - 25th. 2023.
This, in a way, is an Ash Wednesday poem.
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