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For Everything That May Be Too Hard To Understand

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  • Ed Wolverton
    For Everything That May Be Too Hard To Understand     Myself, into the weeping of the womb, deaf and dumb in a lavished room, seeking only to be born,
    Message 1 of 1 , Sep 22, 2011
      For Everything That May Be Too Hard To Understand
      into the weeping of the womb,
      deaf and dumb in a lavished room,
      seeking only to be born,
      waiting, waiting, what seems like forever.
      This tree,
      that grows outside my window,
      my front room window,
      that stands in front of my window,
      losing leaf from frosted days,
      seems to die, and wither away.
      A flower,
      grows still and covers in moonlight,
      fills with sunlight, opening arms to raise,
      catching in all the sunlit rays,
      beautiful budding,
      luscious blood red,
      scent full of sweet perfume.
      A clover,
      four leaf spreads about the field,
      mating rituals steal dandelion quills,
      resting in sunlight splendor,
      with yellow pollen falling from the sky,
      whisking powdered baker's bread on rye,
      to the beat of butterfly wings.
      We dance,
      we sing to the tune of lady luck.
      We harvest our fields over moon's bay
      in a hot August night,
      grape fields fine for wine,
      corn fields full of old cow crows,
      tomatoes and peas in a garden path,
      lay wait upon watermelon seeds gathering vines,
      or pumpkins glowing Jack-o-Lantern smiles.
      We tell the tales and run tail,
      stories of which become lucid and frail,
      as old age beacons our character,
      and we swell the tears of many years,
      past or present from great gratitude,
      listening to the songs of wind
      that the wild mustard sings
      while hugging freedom's glance.
      The child is born,
      weeping, screaming with laughter,
      crying with pain and fear,
      cold, so cold,
       sliding out of the womb
      the shock of sudden birth
      fills the air with life's promise,
      to live, and live forever
      from this day forward.
      This tree
      to grow ten times high,
      reaching towards the sun
      in a morning mist
       floating amidst the ground,
      and rotted root of a neighbor tree
      feeding chum to the earth,
      with moldy red clay baking dinner pots
      in seldom watched toad stool's boiling soup.
      A flower plucked
      into the hands of Venus,
      what love, what love, a splendor be,
      to wash the soil in kisses,
      bathing in a bath of kind hearted tears.
      To become a special beauty
      in the eyes of a love god,
      beholding the new,
      a withered soul shall see,
      as infamous this blood of life becomes
      to shield a woven cloth of virginity,
      a tempest of absolute thrilling lace and silk.
      A clover
      to heal the wounds of a driven path,
      tilled the furrows till tomorrow,
      muddied in cow pie pastures
      until morning rituals gather.
      Placing amidst a single leaf,
      in a forever field
       of golden springtime poppies
      and hallelujah trails.
      We dance
      in the shadows of Mercury rising.
      We sing in the heart's content
      over love, fortune, and fame,
      blistering a wake of wind time
      like a ship of full sail in a storm.
       We clutter our lives's with muted grit,
      holding great misfortunes for our future,
      casting stones into glass houses,
      chasing bulls in china shops,
      but thrill ourselves into living life
      into its fullest capacity.
      We tell the secrets of ourselves.
      We teach, we learn, we stow away
      our promised memories,
      gathered to heart
      by living our daily lives.
      By hit and miss,
      we touch life
      as a low flame
      of a burning candle wick,
      lighting our way
      into everything that we may understand
      in all these new found things.
      Edward Wolverton 2011
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