Fragments? They’re but change from broken minds
which, overeducated on the bits,
have lost the force to fathom what they see.
Apparent shards are linked, not only with
the other things we classify as things,
but also with the willow, and its song,
and sentient forces, falcon eggs, and snow.
Some time in space emerges and is you.
I too unfold from patterns kept on hold.
We meet, and fly, ascend a tango’s cusp
that’s literal to those with open eyes.
We ride the dance to glory and to death.
A rain of icy comets marks our fall.
Iron buries us in particles of stars
that take our heat, incinerate, take off,
and cause new worlds in future galaxies.
Some space in time effects a bank of clouds
that, rising up, condense, and shed a tear
that some future sun takes pleasure in, and steams.
The vapour’s us. Our dance begins anew.
Poem courtesy and © Alan Reynolds