Pie - apple, cherry
cookies baked
a Spring flower’s scent
the soft warm loam of Autumn.
A mandala, endlessly returning to its starting point.
A clock running endless circles
on gears, round and relentless
provoked by infinitesimal interactions
of electromagnetism
with a silicon crystal:
quartz.
A seam in a rock-face
compressed by geo-logic
and time, collapsing chaos
into ordered structure.
~
The city breathes
its vitality in cycles of sleeping and waking,
of travel to and from
a job, a church, a school
a home to a home:
arterial rush, endlessly returning.
From the sky to the sewers
the liquid breath of oceans, of clouds
condensing over updrafts
baked into humidity
by cycles of unrelenting sunlight:
the bright distant plasma flare
of a near and energetic star.
Lift into the heavens, satellite
and beam us dreams and greetings
from the ethers.
Endless cycles of orbit
tiny frail boxes of gold, aluminum, steel
that shape our intranet.
~
Word spreads on insta-vines
clips of the ebb and flow of people
their ordered lives, lived colorfully
or in soft gray stills
of their candid moments.
Claims staked, they come to ply the mine
for insta-gold,
the prospectors of the most hip,
most highest ode to hype.
Storytellers, they swarm to commune
with that which is most holy:
a place worthy of a story.
To them, they gather an audience,
these insta-tellers, speakers of the truth
of a place. They name the holy sites:
a pub, a bar, a diner, the park:
building shrines of devotion
to a spirit carefully cultivated.
And some of the audience lingers,
gets their bearings
in a rich and splendorous utopia.
Full of the vision, they stake their claim
in the fever of finding
a gold lode
within their grasp.
A woman’s skirts,
when adorned with too many sequins,
will lay flat and not bell before her.
And so, with the weight
of a thousand times a thousand
glittering sequins
the spirit of a place collapses.
The holy sites become haunted
and the dying breath of a place
escapes
to become the silence that follows a gasp.
~Anna Chlewicki Lightfoot~
