"Things" : (A Writer's Alchemy)

Photo courtesy of Central Penn College: "The Boyer House"

The thing is

When one ventures from the abode;
                That comfortable home in our cranium

                What we previously held back,

                We tend to, (and tend to see)

The things

that weren’t there before

                But always were:

The mossy outcrop where a plastic bag

clings to a twig, and waves as the star spangled banner

of disregard

The fenced line between two pastures

The opposition of juxtaposed ownership

And different aspirations

Hatfields,

McCoys,

…Coy ones in hats

Feuds and friendships

The cables between telephone poles

That traverse the horizon, carrying text

Homes with gazebos, never used

Back porch clutter

Unkept lawns, a garden, a gnome

The thing is

                These things make us, tell a story

They show we are here, and we have placed

Something, anything on ground or reached for sky

                That we knew we’d never reach

A welcome mat to our homes, hearts, and our minds

The lineage we have

                Ingredients for the recipe of me

It’s a cosmic soup, but the past ones

                Have such an enigmatic effect, as a dim light

                In the Gobi desert of our conscience

The lone spot in barren land

The Unavoidable;

Circus elephants in the room:

                The tree line of family.

The thing is

                This tree, can be

                Elegant, elaborate, laced with royal branches

                And pretty leaves

Or low, to the ground, just trying to be

In a world of devour and survive

Recessive, or Progressive

Painful, or Pleasurable

But that’s not the point

                Or a tip to wait

The thing is

                This beauty and tragedy lies in every entity

                All the living and all the dead

                There’s poetry, there’s decency

                There’s a place to dig deep

and yet

We must respect the lining

The black lining

The white lining

The shade of grey

The thing is

                 We begin to realize

                 Eyes go wide, open and unable to slumber

                 Insomnia lends to obsessive voyeurism

Because beauty and ugliness still wage a war

The thing is

                There’s things we don’t know

                That we’ll never understand, but strive to

But at the very least

We’re doing to try.

Writing to reach “We.”
Me?
That (I think)

Is The Thing.