by which I
write is
elemental—
but in no sense
compulsory.
The way the wind
wends through birch trees
to buffet me in
short sleeves
at this spot
on the planet
on this particular instant,
but never
can be said to have
properly had a beginning.
Perhaps this
is what we mean
by essential:
a thing like hunger
which never was
invented, yet
comes to us unbidden,
grabs hold
of the void in us firmly
by the handle,
and fills it
to the brim.