To be apposed to
a full-leafed tree
either crimson, lighted, in the open
or the dark green of a bittersweet
in the middle of life is
a piquancy I did not choose:
It is freely given all the same
from the storehouse of the unconscious.
I am reminded from time to time
of a thread stretching
across the diaspora
across cities, countries, and continents
where I am a known point
somewhere in the middle
carrying within the voices of two worlds
and realizing with a jolt
when the thread slackens between us
that it is time for me to call.
Within the surge that is humanity, for a few hours today, I was reminded of Walt Whitman's wordsand felt that I indeed contain multitudes:
I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise, Regardless of others, ever regardful of others, Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man, Stuffed with the stuff that is coarse, and stuffed with the stuff that is fine ...