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Presocratic
The geese-traversed frozen lake
like a black and white Jackson Pollack,
arbitrary crisp prints on ice, thawing to smudged lines,
early spring dissolving winter art to water supply,
reminds me that the nutritive capacity to replenish all cells,
mine included, buoys these geese all summer,
touches all things local,
is seasoned by all it touches,
all that dies in its’ bed come fall.
The geese become me,
and all things are full of the lake god.
Can we dispute the natural philosophy
that water is the originating principle?
Can we pretend however, be so self-centered,
as to believe that our version is the one,
the lubricant of the universe,
the Zen-like moisture of all?
Millions of stars and billions of miles between them
create infinite possibilities.
What of the planet covered with grape juice like oceans,
their plumbing pumping purple staple
and lilac skinned thinkers
smelling of fichus and eucalyptus
sit and ponder the mauve wet as the maker,
perhaps they are even Pre-Socratic,
possibly one is a Thales.
