MUTE

MUTE

whose woods these are
I have no idea
am afraid
he must
have made them
and then taken it
upon himself
to disappear

leaving me
with letter of introduction
and no word else
or
sign
to follow

on my hoped-for quest
for guidance: that
I might indeed
be led
to the heart
of his vision

here in the snow
soft and
crisp
and deep
amongst these trees

and now it would seem
I misread this scene
missed the truth
of its emptiness
blatant assertion
              of
pure vacance

exactly
as Sir Isaac and his
Newtonian theologians
     steeped in the maths
of the cosmos
believing
      they might read it
like clockwork
atom by atom
predict to perfection,
calculate
     everything

logically determined
he absolutely must
                   sole choice
in the
matter

thus
for me
for us
so sweetly newly
here acquainted

no sense
to hang around as
the snow deepens
night
begins to fall
waiting for
a guided tour, ushered
around
out of the kindness
of his heart

believing
his presence
not just necessary
but quintessential

needed desperately
to
bring into focus
add allure
    establish connection
always ready
to conjure

something
out of nothing

show us
     rational breathing
mechanical creatures
all that lies
outside
   this system of systems

here at its cold, empty,
blatant vacant most
existential

     forcing us to cling together
for ths warmth that
 
from which
this
this flung
      out of ourselves
thrown into
this
   terminal darkening cold
together

chilled to the bone
for better
           or worse

clinging
            together for
whatever warmth
                      our bodies might
have cause to
find
    each other
        (hunting for
something
   closer)

finding in each other
presence
         connection
spirit
            long denied
             
unflustered
despite the snow
           whitening
whitening

drifts
deepening

what was
green
          and
alive in every twig and
branch and
             leaf

making the hidden mystery
of its presence

                crystal clear