Rising Dust
By Margaret Avison
The physiologist says I am well over
half water.
I feel, look, solid; am
though leaky firm.
Yet I am composed
largely of water.
How the composer turned us out
this way, even the learned few do not
explain. That’s life.
And we’re in need of
more water, over and over, repeatedly
thirsty, and unclean.
The body of this earth
has water under it and
over, from
where the long winds sough
tirelessly over water, or shriek around
curved distances of ice.
Sky and earth invisibly
breathe skyfuls of
water, visible when it
finds its own level.
Even in me?
Kin to waterfalls
and glacial lakes and sloughs
and all that flows and surges,
yet I go steadily,
or without distillation climb at will
(until a dissolution
nobody anticipates).
I’m something else besides.
The biochemist does not
concern himself with this.
It too seems substance,
A vital bond threaded on an
as-if loom out there.
The strand within
thrums and shudders and twists.
It cleaves to this
colour or texture and
singles out to a rhythm
almost its own, again,
anticipating design.
But never any of us
physiologist or fisherman
or I
quite makes sense of it. We
find our own level
as prairie, auburn or
snow-streaming, sounds forever
the almost limitless.
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Last night I was whining that I needed to go to Target to return stuff, and it turned out that
When the kids got home, younger son told me that they had a writing assessment today and they were supposed to write about what they like about autumn. He wrote about an evil black leaf that wouldn't let bugs land on it and scared all the other leaves into falling off. I am not sure whether to praise his creativity or worry that his teacher will think he's a wise-ass, since I know some of the kids in his class undoubtedly used high school level adjectives to describe the colors of the leaves and stuff. *g* Speaking of younger son's interests,
This is a Fokker D.VII from World War I. If you are not laughing hysterically at that name, you are obviously not a ten-year-old boy.
Also from the World War I Aviation exhibit, a replica of an Underground station entrance leading to a display on air raids. This made me nostalgic for London despite the circumstances.
And for
Wednesday I am finally seeing
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