The mountains, once the only spires
when their farsightedness was mistaken for foresight.
They, silenced now, can only watch
the aimless graze of a goat and the meander
of the burnt-topped orchids that tread them
and presage nothing,
so leave your prophecies behind.
Our predilection for predictions might urge us
in a variety of directions -
even an ant might forsake his swarm of compatriots
to cross a lowland river on a comfrey leaf
as a boat, to climb the intractable rise
of rock and stone on the other side,
to wonder what exists beyond the clouds,
and perhaps he will die trying.
The goat, his slit eyes narrow, a Heraclitus,
he understands this creature can never traverse
the same water twice, will not imagine this same scene
twice, but the ant has had his own cosmic visions
of formic kings of forests and the ascension
of earthy towers and he will risk
any prospect for this idea.
An idea that has fastened to him, that he bears
as a swatch of green, cut to a portable size
yet still ten times his own. This ant is made of myths,
he takes the frozen breath of the air
and snaps it like a twig, he fashions swords
from frosty knives that glisten as he tells them
they are stars in their own verdant firmament,
and that he knows that love is everything,
and really, love is all there's ever been.
And this thought is more potent than any of the metal men,
melts away their hard slices of sides and corners,
fires their lies, buries them in the concrete
of their anti-natural fantasies.
He sleeps amongst the pale bristles
of his makeshift ship and asks his dreams
about those snow-capped summits each night again
because every morning wakes him with a different answer.
Image from pixabay.