"The bridges
are still reaching across
the wide sound of being there."
M.S. Merwin
I don’t know how to reach you
accross the broken bridge
where I stand on the precipice
and no one else there.
And the ethereal is telling me
this is not real, this is just a dream.
They are a conventional wisdom,
a common sense not really the best guide.
I would agree with you there;
but at least they are talking.
Do you hear the click, click, click
from the other side of the bridge?
Like birds chattering under
my fingertips, the typing of the birds.
They never go silent, those birds;
they are a lesson in the daily ways of trying.
Right words, right action,
right click and view the source code
of the words. The river’s source, the earth’s source—
these things are always underground.
They are not a secret and never have been.
They are just covered. Like a seed.
Code as seeds, growing into meaning
and understanding. Things have been said
in the jungle of that code, in the green
and yellow and pink and white
flowering of many words.
You may not always hear it,
but I say it.
Just go back and see.