by which I write is
in no sense
compulsory, even though
it's elemental;
the way wind
wends through birch trees
to buffet me
in short sleeves
at this particular spot
on the planet
on this particular instant,
but still can't
be said to have
had a beginning—
perhaps
something like these things
is what we mean
by essential:
it's like hunger—
which never had
to be invented, and yet
comes to each of us
unbidden,
grabs hold
of the void in us firmly
by the handle,
and fills it
to the brim.
