Paper Flowers

 I can see the paper

scattered and know

where it goes and

what it means—

I even see the tools

to bring about its union—

but the inspiration

it remains clouded

by an undercurrent.

Like the sea, we,

the thoughts, are all pulled

toward it. Life runs

into us and back

but always pulled

in one direction.

The very same.

The one culled

from the voice

in our heads.

How deaf

can I be to its call

and let my actions

remain objective?

These scraps, all different

shapes but similar

are pulled together.

They have no issue

of togetherness, no indignation

toward unfulfilled ends.

No confusion of emotions.

They fit soundly

around their pin

to form a shape.

Their parts become

a whole. Then,

what obstruction shadows

the plainview processes

of the mind. Transfigured,

is the idea changed?

We give it away

like pulling a barbed arrow.

The gift

reveals its sway

over headlong ideas

because the current

will pull but

it will always

be brought back

to shore.

-tm