Simple Theories

  In consideration of where you are, a low place embowered by trees: probably a  dell . Also possible dale or vale, at least in English plenitude. Look around you, check the underbelly. Language stands between us, sometimes defensive, sometimes still. For shizzle your nizzle, that steeper slope indicates dingle in some way. Note the map in between. Trusty language in a blessing of patent. You are here means somewhere, worthy of definition and defiance. Trees and rocks, the fitful earth relaxes. A poet writes every flake of poem in perhaps words or other engines. The poet as prim vortex concedes to words and their like. Meaning mixes with utter impulses and conditions. You are drawn in, implacably, like the best calm report. And what do you know?

  YOU are the force of sand. Ground to implication and scatter, yet effectively centered. You can boast the briskness of being there, which is here, the element. The polis of integrity, the politics of iota combine like irritation. You are voice as a single word, a document, a sentiment. You can be the ocean itself, waiting in terms and process. So buck up, you are clear, unclaimed, and constant. You smack the beachheads and warzones, and even bear a name thru crossfire winds. The sentence cannot exist without you.

  You say deity when you mean  something . It is okay. Green leaves, acorn, the rustle of mice and machination. Perhaps you spot a crow eating transitive verb on a flake of parking lot. Mystery fills by well-timed conjunction. Geese fly over, worn cellphones of engagement, or so you think. Blue can be kind tho grey seems more spacious. A sky forms forever apt in your mind. Spell deity with deity. Rephrase corrosion or pity or cyclical envelopment. You can make up shit on your television, sure, but you are never so lost as to need such entreaties. Rain will follow snow.

  A grove realizes packed sanctity. Trees judged as trees not minions. Deity hidden in, in trees, in grove, in grounding. Deity as a matter of fact, like plunging thru clouds. But the eternal something, brown waves, green consistory, and waxy fabulists, proper to the moment. But wait, trees include groves as congregation. Gregarious albeit parsimonious grandeur laden, with leaf.  The provocation . You have sacred things in mind, or an odd pine cone. The breeze voices trees. Language has been. Bunch of deities loll, the best you can imagine. But can your words carry trees? You may realize not just anything costs double. The moon each month looks different. A tender zoology awaits in the background.

  Consider the orchard. It judges moments by eons. It knows the passivity of red sunset. The skirling readiness of grey dawn excites the orchard. The trees of orchardness symbolically bear light with vigorous enfranchisement. A word exists for that, if you can find it. Stories told become, which awkwardly implies lanterns. When you walk in orchard you think of the borne fruit. That fruit unravels time in a seductive test case. A blue sky brings proverbs. An aptitude for music, or any gushing of words, or simply the colours between colours, these all cede to orchard as place before place and after. The day begins in moments and slyly ends as well. Consider the orchard.

  Acorn plunges forth with plenary momentum into. Into land and time and time’s structured limit, the year. The acorn fulfills social construct, living in communal scads, in word-like abundance. The grand scape of oak provides an early nest for the frenetic pace of burgeoning acorn. Listen to the solstice. The ripened missile leaves the tree within the light presumption of time. Your time may not have noticed. Squirrels in ardency then proceed as shepherds of energy, rustling up acorns in gorgeous aptitude. Some acorns feed the squirrels, some nestle in loam, to dream the light within. And you are busy too, as rivers pass, winds blows, the people who appear. Your hand can touch another, the acorn holds still for a moment. Perhaps something can be declared in the remaining sun. It can only last forever.

  The water looks so good in this admissible smidgin. Ocean has been pronounced, in deference to your size. A faint eyrie of thought occurs, reflection of sky on the unlunging surface. Limitless sky enclosed. Politics makes ocean sounds, tho puddles. You step into puddle as if death were the messenger. Puddle means remnant in your ocean wayward. Tears collect because poems must be rendered in keen tones. The puddle directly ahead apportions all the messages from the sky you imagined. Your wet feet slake. Monstrance puddle holds love possible. A step in immersion makes chance. The ocean itself cannot stop you. The puddle bears your best smallness, even while sere sun shines.