only the meaning of existence,
Not life, mind you, existence.
That is the question.
And the answer?
According to the Poet*,
Everything except language
knows the meaning of existence.
Trees, plants, rivers, time
know nothing else. They express it
moment by moment as the universe.
And, left out, but not
by design, I bet.
A little literary slip of memory,
I’m sure. Else, the sun’s
tricks in the clouds at sunset
would’ve made his cut.
I can make a case:
Exactly 12 minutes after
the sun had sunk below the horizon
and downright out of sight
(and most all the picture-takers had
rolled and strolled home for
a glass of wine or a screen of glass),
at about 140 degrees opposite,
in tonight’s eastern, sky, mind you,
above a church steeple, reaching
above and beyond the Celtic cross,
way up into a rumble of cumulus,
with only blue to catch and reflect,
the sun pitched a late gob of fire
into the darkening sky.
One last glimpse of meaning.