Pictography
As the comedian Louis C.K. has put it, in a contemporary twist on the Buddha’s teachings, “Everything’s amazing, and nobody’s happy.”
There is this space
where my curiosity grows —
it is never filled, or sated.
It wonders, with the same fierce intensity it did
when I was young enough
to chase butterflies and look less strange,
only I’ve given up on appearances now.
An orb-weaver builds a web outside
my window, with intricacy and purpose.
There is this space
where my love dwells —
it is rarely filled, or sated.
It cherishes people, places, and things
with far deeper passion than it did
when I was brighter, but clueless
as to what would happen next.
She builds her web again the second night,
even better and stronger.
There is this space
where my light resides —
it flickers, but never goes out.
It shines on beauty not evident, listens
intently to pourings of souls, collects meanings
behind why you rise in the east
when all others turn away, I watch.
The third night as she feasts on a silken cocoon
to sustain her a little longer.
Because I’m setting, we’re all setting.
I lie inside this ache of my bones,
tell each ridge that we’re not alone
while watching a yellow-brown leaf float away,
crumbling before its time.
Scooping it up to make a lasting impression,
the way we all do
Before disappearing
onto faded maps of memories,
tucked away in drawers we don’t open.
There is this space
where my shadow lived —
trying
to scrape together enough symbols
to make my story worthwhile.
Seeking the weaver, only wispy trails blow
where she’d thrice made her presence known.
