Nearby the morning pink treelined water—
dappled by scratches
of waterbirds landing, lapping
breezes, and their attendant
soft panoplies
of deciduous tree seeds gently downswirling—
only a man
sits and stares
with his breath and
dares hard—to contemplate
what on earth!
his gift
to humankind could possibly be
when such bright and bold and beautiful color
and the sweet freshness of air
are—not even given
so much as
already there—
and not
lending themselves
to any such clever
repackaging either—no matter how
faithful,
or fervent,
or earnest—so much as
allowing—
as wind
invites water—
the intrinsic-
ly
obscure and necessarily anonymous
self-
re-
and
then,
slowly,
gradual
dis-
identification.
