Tuesday, April 19, 2016

The numbers are rising

It is spring here and cold
I’ve locked myself into a small town
Doing small town business
En route between Turmwall and community park
I commit to a life with dog
Paint my fingernails blue
Deep in the woods I realize
That the wood isn’t deep here
Neither is the river, water up to my chest
I wade into ordinary sceneries
Of couples kissing behind ivy fences
Holding hands on the way to the supermarket
Folding hands in church
Someone told me the numbers are rising
I sit down on a bench and wait
For the deer to disappear
It remains wishful thinking
I must build my own gallery
If I want to see some real art here
Blue fingernails and stuff
We are told to teach numbers to those who have come here
For a new beginning
We start counting with one
We speak about time
We speak about habits and cultures
The difference
They always focus on the difference first
Where are those embracing similarity
Do we still believe in synchronicity
And what about rainbows and wet grass under our feet
Every patch seems dried out though
It is raining, it is cold, it is spring
We start counting with one
Then we speak about the difference