Setting the record straight, maple trees have no navel, what people quaintly call a belly button. Navels stand as a human pressure point indicating birthing process and the thought of antecedents. Such reflects an overweening concern with where time goes, if it exists at all. In contrast, maples simply startle. They proclaim the news and nuance of downtown wonderful. Well-prognosticated to beam colours at certain times, maples like to dash. Some breeds act like weeds, so humanly unproductive. No need to worry that. The factory system requires effort. The bugs know. So do the rocks amidst the striving roots. Chlorophyll must go until chlorophyll must be gone. The leaves then return to hidden colour, a meaning in tight sentencing. By then, Spring and Summer have finished beaming, and Autumn trolls the designate in language much like Keats' eye or any other sweep of field. Useful bell tones, utter sky, and scanning forward plans the document in the brightest. Let your navel contemplate that.
The work becomes chiding of sunlight. The work is elegy and shaded. The principle ciphers as a god, in the way transience is purpose. Transience works this brief, ending fields, making trees concern. The hell of halting midway identifies the work of burning thru. Forever makes a sign. Sign makes worthy. Indeed the tramp of feet forward concludes any sentences but suggests more. Long sentences, stupid words. The caroling heard by Dante, brilliantine remorse for a better tide. The long road up from down, and turned around. The work then becomes the work now, as stained glass similitude. Anxious in the class structure of catastrophe, the baying song over all. Nothing to do but be done. Ruskin gave you papers to remind you. Slow battering concedes the earth in time. Time being functional and oblique. The worker inside sees the nation by exhalation. Transitive connection sports of culture. The class that ends becomes the class that begins, both left and right.
Comments