by Lee Slonimsky
It’s just a mood, perhaps, but he stands stunned,
the densest woods so asymmetrical:
gnarled trunks and twisting branches, splashing sun
that here collects in pools, and there slants straight.
He likes the orderly but in a lull
the random overwhelms him. One tree white,
the others mossy brown; a stream misshaped
by boulders, broken logs.
confusion’s reign, if one’s astute: the loops
a swallow swoops seem odd, math-free. He’s fooled
himself these many years with phantom rules:
to prize his abacus, to calculate,
have been his life, but now he sees it all:
stormstrewn chaos. A maple’s sudden fall.
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