When I find all the reasons
By Douglas Nordfors
the world is splendid, I set out
to find them again, and get lost
in spent effort, like an explorer
trudging in a small circle around
the north pole, looking up
into the echo of a fruitless plea.
Imperfect simile? I can't tell.
There's no secret of life,
except when what happens after
the secret of life is nullified
is examined. Suddenly,
territory is unknown,
bearings have no bearing.
I follow my small circle
of footprints, and discover hunger
is numb, a root stitched into
what was once upon a time
an orchard floor, into pale
earth strewn with apples with
no skin or meat or core.
Imperfect metaphor? Yes.
Emptiness is active, freezing
wind through the north star no one
who's broken their small circle
and set out for the starless
horizon can follow. Emptiness?
No proof of it will I ever find.