(Paul DeLuna)
For the time I stare – I almost dismiss
my creator. Though sometimes I look at
the lone assembly affront – I think
of Dana’s delicate touch.
At times, as I feel the soft wind
pick up its erratic pace,
do I think of its frail heart,
crushed under the shoe. Sometimes the vision of a
chevalier dove, seeming no more than the
size of a thumb in the air, will force me to think
of its origin, before it floats in the breeze
from its warm home. I’ve seen so
few land pure of agent; with its own
authentic and complete way of being.
Now, it moves from its berth on the cold floor
with an alluring beauty, it carries
with the soothing wind. How long before it falls
flat once more, aberrant dissenter?
For moments I stand in awe of its compass –
sweeping to the drum of one’s own
satisfaction and contentment. But sometimes,
watching a soft limb fall, my own
heart skips a force in the aura
of my own nature. How will I know?
I will never know, if at one moment,
I emerge as an ancestor of its being.
But as I watch, I feel my frame intrude
a peaceful state in which all is
acquaint; and a dove on an ice field
of dreams entertains the essence of ruin.
