In a Cycle

This morning in the swirl of

wisdom and order and chaos

I stumble through a contemplation

of the news and the surface of a small lake of coffee.


I gaze upon my wandering efforts

to grasp the situation of the universe.

I grieve the consistent admirations

for explosions that erase evil or

destroy goodness on a lovely day.


The life of the universe encompasses

explosions and it is because of

violence of immeasurable scope

I can sit beside a calm stream

that speaks the language of water

and composes the poetry of

reflections, colors and my planet's breath.


I am tired and astounded

by the simple complexity of existence.

As a life ages it becomes

an old toy chest filled with a jumble

of memories and forgottens.


I briefly acknowledge that

my interesting body will become soil.

We are here and that cannot be changed.

I passed through these locations in infinite space.

I am particles and my participation can be

directed but cannot be purged.

I will leave behind bones perhaps, and stories,

possibly a spray of radiation.

The cycles are reliable.




There is probably nothing more

dependable than a cycle.

Creator, question, response.

Evolution, puzzle, resolution.


Now I am outside on the covered deck

under a steady summer rain.

Drops fall like straight lines against

a curtain of grateful leaves.

Hear their rhythm on the cloth canopy.

A soft mist filters through the cloth

and tiny droplets as cold as snowflakes

are kissing my shoulders and back.

I am a witness in the home of the holy family.

I hear Mother Sky say to Baby Earth

"It's time for your bath."


        John C. Manimas, June 2021

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