Samsara

Some days seems
Everything’s an offering,
Praising the endless
Recycling of matter —
And perpetual devotion
To transformation,
And reformation.

These constant arrivals —
No vague déjà vu,
But a
Perennial revisiting
The point of return.

Any change,
A slight shift
To minor or major,
All the thematic
Variations
That keep us hooked
On these musics.

Cattails brown
Or green —
Either way autumn
Raises in them
An ocean of wind.
Snakes eating tails,
And mirrors
Reflecting mirrors
Forever.

And yet —
Today is no yesterday.
And each now
A new now.

How long
Does it take
For the sun
To change her face?

And these prairie plants
We love —
Do they sprout
An inch to right
Or to left?

And if these shifts —
No matter how minute —
Are true,
And you and I
Are starlight
Reforming
Minute to minute,
And this,
All of this,
Every last bit of it,
Whether celebrated
Or reviled,
Is simply
Matter seeking
Self-expression —
Flexible,
Fluid
In eternal
Ever-changingness,
Then who am I
To assume a mind
Could matter?

But if it is true
That all the matter
Of this now
Is the glorious flux —
Then can we not also
Hope
For an eventual healing —
And the perfection
Of our own
Energetic self?

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

2 responses to “Samsara”

  1. Dick Jones says :

    This spells out its temporal reflections and the questions they provoke so well. A slow, elegantly-phrased unreeling of thoughts towards its final question. Could I make a suggestion? (Always a risk!) Is the last two-line stanza necessary? For me as reader, that final question poses itself and this fine poem is complete at that point .

  2. Emily says :

    Thanks for your comments, Dick. In fact, I struggled with whether that last stanza belonged there or not. I think you’re right. It’s unnecessary.

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