Wednesday, January 22, 2014

I am a part of it



 To know that the atoms
of my body
will remain

to think of them rising
through the roots of a great oak
to live in
leaves, branches, twigs

perhaps to feed the
crimson peony
the blue iris
the broccoli

or rest on water
freeze and thaw
with the seasons

some atoms might become a
bit of fluff on the wing
of a chickadee
to feel the breeze
know the support of air

and some might drift
up and up into space
star dust returning from

whence it came
it is enough to know that
as long as there is a universe
I am a part of it.

"It Is Enough" by Anne Alexander Bingham.

4 comments:

  1. This is a lovely poem...
    but I'm going to go with the previous post's idea of haunting ...
    That would be enough.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Yes~to be a door-slammin' ghost would be far more fun than to come back as an iris or shimmering, but silent, stardust.

    ReplyDelete
  3. nobody loses all the time

    i had an uncle named
    Sol who was a born failure and
    nearly everybody said he should have gone
    into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
    sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like

    Hell Itself which
    may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle

    Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
    of all to use a highfalootin phrase
    luxuries that is or to
    wit farming and be
    it needlessly
    added

    my Uncle Sol’s farm
    failed because the chickens
    ate the vegetables so
    my Uncle Sol had a
    chicken farm till the
    skunks ate the chickens when

    my Uncle Sol
    had a skunk farm but
    the skunks caught cold and
    died and so
    my Uncle Sol imitated the
    skunks in a subtle manner

    or by drowning himself in the watertank
    but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
    Victrola and records while he lived presented to
    him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
    scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
    tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything

    and
    i remember we all cried like the Missouri
    when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
    somebody pressed a button
    (and down went
    my Uncle
    Sol

    and started a worm farm)

    e. e. cummings

    ReplyDelete
  4. Currently reading an essay in Vanity Fair on Cummings.

    ReplyDelete