If Hope is the thing with feathers,
perhaps Life is that stony thing, that stony Enigma.
If someday, somehow, somewhere,
I catch some glimpses
of what makes a heart, a stone,
and what makes a stone, watery
before someone dies…
What makes stones, water and heart stick together
at that temperature and ambience,
at different temperatures and ambiences.
What makes them cohere
in those particular forms and shapes,
in those particular weight and texture,
under those space-time conditions
which we can scarcely think about.
What makes them reticent, austere, almost immortal
when framed into a poem,
when we don’t see any dinosaurs around,
except those pebbles which are already around
before all those species of dinosaurs appeared.
Perhaps someday, I may even glimpse
some of the starlights within,
and how they stick together
my eyes, ears, nose, tongue, head,
my fingers, palms, thighs, knees and legs.
Or how they make me think such enigmatic,
cosmic things in the middle of the night
and type these lines when I ought to be hiding
my squarish head under a soft, non-enigmatic pillow.
Or perhaps even my present pillow
has the potential to become Platonic, thoughts-stirring,
since it is made up of many puffs of cotton wool,
those precious gifts from the sky, machine-sewn
within two squarish pieces of cloth, before being embedded
within a tender, slothful pillow cover.
These contain equally mysterious
but essential stuff — space, air, hugginess.