Sunday, February 26, 2012


Image by Ansel Adams
Momentary snow having been written
Upon an untextured gray slate of sky,
The day is now ready to show how
It may unfold. But no one sees,
And so no one has born witness
To the flurry.

If a tree having fallen in the forest
Makes, or does not make, a sound,
How, then, will the day's incipient
Indecision ever be told to those who
Simply lived thereafter in the then more
Fixed day?
How can the haphazardness of
Lucretius' oft-swerving atoms
Be impressed upon us whose lives transpire
In their purblind circumstantial wake?
Can a merely atomic creature
Recount this?


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