murmurs
Every landscape is a dream,
or if not the land itself, though it may be,
then the one who watches, who walks,
the dreamer who thinks about the land,
names the trees, points out asters or gentians,
but who doesn’t only think,
though she may think she’s only thinking.
Secretly, in her uncharted blood, as she walks or stands,
notices, names, counts -- even as she pauses
among abstracted grasses, uploading photos
to a phone app -- she’s undergoing
everything in this panoramic world.
Her feet glancing the fathomless reach
of the roots and the endless remaking
of the rocks, the air surrendering ruined molecules of decades
and oceans, birds plotting their course south, north,
or to other dimensions altogether, across trackless seas --
she may as well be asleep, aware in that way,
buoyed and lofted through a series of unthought passages,
a breeze sweeping her hair, dislodging a strand
into the ceaseless current.
She feels unannounced,
inevitable, born into her body, found nowhere
but here, blanketed by purple flowers whose true
names will never be known, though she murmurs them
as she stirs.
© MMWms 2020
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Landing Page for write 31 days – dreamscape
Featured image: gentian, NH, Sept. 2020 (manipulated with deep art effects)
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