Weeds

A man full of words
is a garden of weeds,
and when the weeds grow,
a garden of snow,
a necklace of tracks: it was here, my snow owl, perhaps.
Who scared it away?
~ Jorie Graham - The Dream of the Unified Field (book not poem)

I remember one person saying recently that he stopped dating a woman because she didn't have any dreams, no hopes or motive - she didn't want to do anything.  I can't comment on whether this was true or not, but I do realize that I experience similar feelings of interest in people and their journeys. I was realizing earlier how attracted my personality is to knowledge and dreams and journeys: motivation, hopes, yearnings, cravings, gut-burning, heart-wrenching aching adventures of appetites. Patrick Rothfuss posted this link, earlier today:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmEbF2uhsZk
And I smiled as I admit that knowledge, understanding, wit magnetizes me, galvanizes me into a headlong pursuit of friends and ambitions.

Full of words and weeds
It's two owlish eyes staring over me
do these fingers sing across these keys
as the crickets, the nightingale, the mouse scurrying
through the brush, between the trees
who? who? precedes the swooping death
in a breath it ends, soon as it begins
pierced in the talons and watching the worldfall
beneath, a blackplate pool and bristlebrush leaves
crows cawcall - is it a prayer?
someone must the sacrifice be - no
my fingers do not sing
but for a second before the mouse's life ends
does she fly with the wind rushing by,
before one creation ends to another one feed?



I found a whole bunch of poetry books at the library, and I think my collection is a little too varied. I found some Robert Bly, some Mary Oliver, some Jorie Graham (I just discovered her), some Bukowski (mixed feelings) and some Maya Angelou. I've been really enjoying my Jorie Graham experience, actually, and Mary Oliver is simply the best.