The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever—Dylan Thomas
Green age slapped you across the mouth and said “Stop! Listen! Get a grip!
Your life is a quickening root of electric blood, fountaining to branches from the baseline of your heart.
Your love is a speechless seed, for life is the zero of spring.
It’s ok to be speechless at this electrostatic charge energizing as it blasts— the poets are still translating the astounded language of storms, and you do yourself no good howling in the drink.
From speechlessness comes listening and when the angst of carving lanes gives out to hard-wired wrinkles you will long for ground zero to fuse with the greater idiom —with the bliss of oblivion —
For there is no storm in stillness of clay —the womb you will dream back into.
When you are a photoreceptor, witnessing, you will know the love of everything.
Originally published in Dream Pop Press