Spirit...

{plank-people photo credit: B. Hamadey}

At the start

was an explosion;

that was the

beginning

of spirit.

Earth,

the spirit of weight,

Pulls down,

roots in itself

solidly, solid. Solid.

Wind,

the spirit of momentum,

seems a trifle in brief

but then persists,

constant and total in its direction.

Lightning,

the spirit of opportunity,

seeks out the surest

path, finds the high point

in a field and is THERE

so soon that

              the ground

       sparkles

    on end

         before

 it ever

arrives.

Water,

the spirit of flexibility,

follows what channels

the obstinate provide:

between rocks,

over walls,

a patient trickle,

a potent tide.

Life,

the spirit of madness,

compels itself to be here,

to spread and to die,

to eat to make waste to

be eaten, in any and every

direction, just to fly.

People are

vessels for spirit—

artful storytellers

and justifiers, but still—

we cannot create,

conceive of,

states without motion:

there was no 'before'

spirit; is nothing after

its come-to-rest

As we settle, the world grows dark.

Like the still before a spark.