WIND

This hilltop pond’s a well-schooled sorcerer
in conjuring of fir trees, wispy clouds
from green and crystal depths. Pythagoras,
distressed by senses’ imperfection, broods
on how closely the trees below reflect
their cousins spearing sky. And now, were he
to put his hand in water, it would merge
with branches in a shimmering mirage.

He wonders if the eyes’ bold lies, matter’s,
(misleading as slow morning’s trickery
of light and water), are meant to instruct
him in raw solitude. Then sudden chill:
one fleeting breeze makes mirror into blur.

Beyond the intellect, there’s nature’s will.

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