Please come back to yourself
I know every action, it is
followed by a reaction, or
at least the contemplation
of a sequencing of movements,
and the consequences
of a recklessness of purpose.
And I know sometimes you feel you are
dying like a porpoise
in the meadow,
in the summer,
and your skin begins to blister
and all the farmer’s wife can do is
stare at you in wonder.
And then someone comes along and says that
Pluto is not a planet.
Oh I wish with all my heart he had not said it.
Can't we come together and
take a stand against all this madness?
But I'm a man who cries without
knowing why he's crying;
but I know there are rivers flowing
way beneath the surface
and phantom shapes of meaning
beyond all understanding.
The foxes are not restless, no, they are
sleeping in their dens,
and the swordfish dream of oceans rising
up over the mountains.
Everything is happening
finally it's happening
everything is happening
again, again, again.
Can you become quiet in your skin?
Contemplate not one thing more than tiny changes in the wind
and understand a falcon
like a sparrow in the morning
and still love the morning
like a sparrow loves the morning.
Photos by Imogen Davies. Words from Old Calcutta by Birds of Chicago.
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Don't ever think I'm gone.