yes i remember the excitement
of this steep june time hill
the crazy warmth
of the afternoon exotic
breeze of wild perfumes
thrust from legions
of grasses and wildflowers
in their blooming passion
was i here last year
or was it lifetimes ago?
sensing this scintillating scent
i recollect so well
and then the event
so familiar to tell
that hawk diving for what
a rabbit, a dove
see how it swoops
i remember that
then soaring upward
clutching a squirming
little furry thing
now how he climbs
beyond those trees
that i had foreseen
in this coincident happening
around time's infinite ring
and that i come again
to this place and incline
on the edge of things
remembered and divined
how? you ask the night
i can only guess
some spiraling song of light
that spins around in its own design
a poem creating a singular rhyme
in deja vu delight
 
my nature is human i've been told
i know of life's mortality
even if that's only goods that i've been sold
something hard wired these ideas in me
as i go from young to old
installed in my psyche
like a cd burned and sold
from before the first word
i ever have learned
so i should know
and was very well taught
that deja vu's amount to naught
things can not have happened once before
even though it just happened once more
and this perception suggests
to whatever it is
writing these jests
that the world and me are something or not
that can't ever be named
like the senses will crave
words just won't do
no truth to be known
from a good idea
all i can say
is at best that i'm here
sleeping and waking
living and dying
again and again
one of a legion
of unidentifiable many timers
as vast as the grasses and hillside flowers
each occurrence has at hand
to perform its eternal returning dances
 
there's the breeze again
speaking of dances
that wild perfume
flashing through the
seething  grasses
and the towering bliss
of hawk's twin flights
almost forgotten
in the surging ahead
of unremembered personal time
reminded only by that fragrance
on this steep june time hill
that i was here before
and may well be again
unidentifiable many timers:
may time be our  artist's tool
like the joy of a creation evermore

 

foxgloves

 

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