April Fools’ Day isn’t usually my kind of folklore. Even just a hint that there is any sort of trickery going on, and I tend to wait it out, eyes ready to roll. This time, I decided to be a bit playful and go with whatever comes. It’s foolishness–if I don’t like it later, it doesn’t count.
After all, who makes the rules around here? No idea. Isn’t me! I might be taking some serious chances here!
You might be able to tell that I have been reading Borges:
1 April 2021
Present at Your Own Conception
–by the author of the lyric ‘Luna Moth’–
Tightly curled leaf on the floor of the forest,
the creature within has escaped. Is that good?
Where will it shelter, alone with a bare mortal
skin and no blanket in all this vast wood?
High overhead, by the light of the lunar
and stellar design that winds round to an end
in the eyes of the one crying now–who was soonest
to sorrow, but also to comfort–a friend
to the patiently ministering angel then sleeping
tucked warmly away in a room of its own.
Maybe tonight when the hail and the freezing
night rain stream away and a strange, fragrant zone
enters here, where you breathe, and it tells you it’s sorry–
sorry you waited so long–but its vain
meanderings ceased in a strange dream of glory
to come when it settled to sleep in a brain
fast asleep without knowing how deeply the ether
enwound it in which–when hail started to fall–
then from a star-crowned forest tree its own creature,
a leaf veined alive with one long early call
encoded in each cell and now-withered tissue–
Once a green luna moth flew to my hand:
So like a woman, attracting a bliss you
can’t use, but still long for–Who planted this land?