Patterns
For one who moves in uncertainty, this
flower, the petals of which
gently fade, as if reason
is found in the decline of beauty
and its comforts.
But all you touch remains
touched. If silence reveals the body
of music, what can be said of darkness? Words
appear motionless until they blossom, a
pattern seldom seen yet carried to us in
all manner of conveyance. Listen,
for there is no purer voice.
Let the earth speak.
“Patterns” first appeared here in March, 2015. I wrote it 30-some years ago, placed it in a folder and promptly forgot it.
O at the Edges 
Sometimes little bunches of words go into instant replay: everything you touch remains touched – so you remain touched by everything that touched you? Ok. Tell the words to stop rolling over and over now….
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The words never listen to what I say…
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Someone does?
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I like this very much. It definitely needed to emerge from its folder!
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Most of the poems from back then deserve the folder’s interior darkness. But there are a few that work.
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Yes, I have a folder of interior darkness from my undergraduate workshop days.
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Love this one!
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Thank you, Jay.
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Words motionless until they blossom … perhaps as poem? Poet perhaps serves as the earth’s translator?
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I think that occasionally the poet is a conduit for all manner of things.
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