𝗘𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗢𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗴𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝗥𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗴
𝘣𝘺 𝘋𝘦𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘩 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘴
If any one of you is traveling
possibly in Paris, Rome or Rothenburg,
and glimpses someone from your past
who is deceased, just stop
and think about the possibility
that he, or she, or they or I may really be there,
now, for you, revisiting this momentary intersection
of the present and the past.
Possibly ephemeral, bright swatches
of recycled molecules pass time orbiting
your consciousness, elliptically, closer
now and then. What ever stays here
after we have shed our disappointing bodies
by the law of physics has to keep on moving,
Strange as it may seem, molecular detritus
of past composites do not require gravity
or speed or visual displays, to travel
out of nowhere into somewhere,
any more than concepts, hanging in a distant nebula
where other dormant visions and desires ripen,
need a catalyst to reinvent themselves. They quicken
when your muse chooses to bring them,
images or thoughts, unspoken, barely visible,
for you to organize with intuition’s memory.
Imagination, fecal stardust, drawn to the familiar,
gravitates, attuned for bonding and becoming Something.
Fully charged, time travel drives them here, from there.
Some simple rearranging, re-collected in your mind,
speaks to your page or to a printer, or a cloud.
With sufficient space, and time, and gravity,
such words will find their way into the right hands.
On the other hand, too bent on making meaning,
we can be reduced to foraging for words refurbished.
What we want to call our own new knowledge
claims a darker gravity, a counter force
that drives us blindly to collect things:
butterflies, or bits, or anything that fits
a pattern, a prediction, or our purpose,
Even sacred soil, inside a vacuum,
turns to ordinary dust, obscures all matter.
We all know the Muse abhors a vacuum.
We escape the mundane, traveling, in mind or body.
Unfamiliarity revives and freshens up the senses.
But for just an instant, in a foreign country
you are certain it’s your dearest friend who leans
against the railing of this bridge,
though you are just as certain she died years ago.
But there she is, unchanged, expecting you.
My grandchildren insist that time is space,
and space is gravity, and what exists will always be,
so it’s not so far-fetched to entertain a presence.
All the world’s syllables are constantly recycled.
Every drink of water has been drunk before.
Often we have proven things we know to be untrue.
Maybe death is time spent waiting at the airport.
In the mirror, I see my father’s face infusing mine.
I am lost until I stop to breathe the stillness of his voice.
Then is when beloveds reappear, as she did
earlier this morning, on the bridge, in Rothenburg.