A Thousand Threads In One (formerly Thread Prologue); finished poem

I bend to look at a thread:
it runs ahead too far to see
and the beginning of it, far off behind,
a dot in the endless distance.
This thread worn but not frayed,
copper brown through the long passage of time.
And as if peering down a microscope
I see that it splits into a thousand smaller strands,
some thin but well worn burs whose itch tell a tale;
others robust, full and smooth to the touch, lightly used and ready for any task;
some long, pulled thin but still clinging with what little it might pull;
some stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life;
pale gold and silver reflections of starlight.
One thread in a thousand. A thousand threads in one.

Reflections on Driving East: Farewell to the Pacific Northwest of Oregon: Draft #2

The Pacific Northwest falls away behind me.
A haze of dust masks distant mountains
turn to shadow in my driver side mirror.
With every slight bend or curve of the road,
glimpses from my past glide slide to my left
slide to my right:
Three Sister's all too soon fade from view,
but remain white-capped cindered cones
splashed across my memory.

Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
roads wind betwixt
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes as far as the eye can see.
And even in this high scrub-land out of way place,
runs blistered and cracked two lanes of blacktop.

The need for repair evident in
work crews and work trucks:
I smell the tar and crushed stone
as it mixes with the fumes of air I breathe.
and I wonder as I drive
fast as thunder shoved across a storm stricken sky,
or as a lightning strike knife stab
thrust from coast to coast,
piercing this mighty body in two.

This Ancient Thread; Prologue, Draft #2

I bend to look at a thread I see before me;
it runs ahead too far for me to see,
and the beginning of it runs far off behind me,
a dot in the endless distance.
This thread is worn but not too well worn,
copper brown after the long passage of time.
And as if peering downward through a microscope
I see that it frays into a thousand smaller more intimate strands,
some thin but well-worn, burs whose itch tell the tale;
others robust and strong, full and smooth to the touch, unused but nevertheless ready for their task;
some long, pulled thinner still but clinging with what little might pull;
some stained with blood, stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood from iron wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life of the sun; pale gold and silver glittering reflections of starlight.
One thread is a thousand. A thousand threads is one.

This Ancient Thread; Prologue, Draft #1

I pull on this ancient thread
copper brown with the slow passage of time,
and it frays into a thousand smaller more intimate strands:
some thin but well-worn, burs that itch but help tell the tale;
others robust and strong, full and smooth to the touch, unused but nevertheless ready for their task;
some long, pulled thinner still but clinging with what little might pull;
some stained with blood, stained-changed color to dark red, brown-blood from iron wrought from tears and toils;
some colored the color of love of life of the sun; pale gold and silver glittering reflections of starlight.
One thread is a thousand. A thousand threads is one.

Reflections on Driving East: Farewell to the Pacific Northwest of Oregon; Draft #1

The West falls away behind me
as dust clouds mask distant mountains
turned to shadows in the rear-view.
Glimpses of the past slide to my left
and to my right with every curve of the road.
Quiet desert basins barbed wire-fenced in,
roads winding
and winding between
scrub speckled hilltops and buttes
as far as the eye can see.
And even in this out of the way place,
only highway and scrub highland,
I ride fast as lightning, a thunder strike
knife stab, thrust from coast to coast
piercing the body in two.

Free Write B: Draft 2

Language
like love desires, demands to communicate,
but words
more than just body.
Love without language
lusts for body,
as animals without language.
Language
comes from life, or a dream to tell
that which cannot wholly be seen.
To make known, and to connect
without body.
Language
also as light, piercing molecules of air.
Connects without touching. Communicates without
body. Moves without moving.

My hand in time

My hand in time
motive-spread like jackals
seen scattered cross the savanna:
a backdrop of boom-clouds
puke pale white-dry their tongues,
wag and await the photographic memories
of rain bursts and shadows wrought
not in pigment.

Free Write B: Draft 1

language is likened to love, a need to communicate
but more than just the body. Love without
language, lusting for the body like
animals without language.
Language comes from life, a desire to tell
that which cannot wholly be seen. To
tell, to make known, and to connect
without body.
Language also as light, piercing
molecules of air, passing by
tiny pieces of matter. Connects
without touching. Communicates without
body. Moves without moving.