Catherine Owen
Aesthetics
You can reduce it all to that.
If you want.
A technological fissure through which light
falls, imprints,
the scent of another’s funk tweaking one’s synapses,
but this morning I am overwhelmed by birds
whose pathways are not as rational
as you think.
Instinct, that machine of plenitude.
It can’t account for everything.
Or technique.
The only way you’ve gifted me with this stone
or merely one channel from which love emerges,
floods onto the earth, lifting this geological clock
and fixing it, just so, in its moment.
Of all creatures,
birds have the most knowledge of light,
but it is the lilac tree that divulges it, the sky
spilling over a field.
I have no way to measure
why I keep returning.
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