Conversations with the Cosmos

Conversations with the Cosmos

L. Edgar Otto 03 March, 2012

1 How are you made of snow, Snow Bunny, when every flake grows in countless ways?

2 Somebody sculpted you, full of lucious curves and a pose at ease as if on the beach and not in a deep freeze.


3 Are you not just the Frosty dream they give to children at Christmas time, the fears, frozen, melting?


4 You speak to me as if your fate the program by the cosmos you say you are but never learned to draw the game.


5 So when you get lost only as good as the languge of we, the inferior mortals, your feelings appeal to the truth of an irrational universe and you blunder a pointless sacrifice of your queen.


6 You cannot fool us all, make a form of sand by the beach at night, the lovers stumble on, the wide eyed lady by the starlight at first can only scream.


7 You are wrong I think. My song does vanish in the singing nor it mine only telling the saga of me. That is what some would have us all believe. It helps when we face the cruel promise of new spring and we return again slowly, through the recapitulation, vague and breaking clumps our heads not seen in all the unexpected growing old and wear and tear, the waxing and waning moon in moods and phases of desire.


8 No one cares really, somewhere there is a price we pay or sell out for the short sighted situation, indifferent hearts in despiration wounded once and always by temptation.


9 Your sping is contained against the threat of fires that others in our hive set, a cigarette, a forgetting to turn off the oven. The fire hydrant is red and bright against the snow unless overwhelmed by blizzards.


10 I can pinpoint my longitude and latitude, how far I am above the level of the sea, and how jumps the hour with the season and its mirrors, New Zealand a day ahead. Your anglelic throne that you cannot do this yet your only freedom to make mistakes, and to create.


11 My clock is out of sync and so is the balance of weather or proof its range goes beyond chance chill, I am off-line to the clockwork of the machine cannot see signals, warnings, alarms, so off the grid that evil does not reach me, the curse of spying eyes for its own sake. But all is seen anyway, the gods do not let you keep a breakthrough work for long but takes the better part as if to test your resolve, expect you to forgive them forgetting I am not myself a god.


12 In the blindness you are the color of a ghost and seem to bask in my attention, some chance fate that teases a balmy day before completion and exhaustion, But what a shabby way to love and toil, you bid me stand by you in that truth the quantum cat knows that a watched pot does not boil.


13 No, I am not talking to myself even to imagine what you might say to confound me. Nor am I possed by you, be you god or idol, or do I worry if to ask that of what I am myself. O I do get fooled at first stumbling over some park bench occupied by spectres that on the surface I cannot help but check out, even the priest has needs for touch and sight if he is said to be still alive.


14 You ask me to walk with you across the bridge, afraid the abyss will talk you into it if left alone- that damn river so beckons even the best of us in sorrow or in jest for some symbolic act, some reality of a ghostly wake at last real in finality, so we get their message. I have walked across it with other snow bunnies and all of you ask me if I think the world will end.



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