Old Paradox, New Verse

A heavy mist rises out of the valley like gun smoke, rifling the air, setting off a time piece of timelessness. The sound of dew dripping from leaves, but no dew felt. This unmetered rural wetness that meets me most mornings ever since I’ve transported to this mystic realm. This meditation, this poetry. A thousand unspoken words inhabit these fat, yellow-green leaves; these long limbs. These crooked Einstein branches. The figure in the cane whose greetings each morning without language haunt me. The sunless days and moonless nights are the old paradox of my new verse.