A Jungian View.
Bamboo, the birthplace
of mankind, grows on a windowsill facing west.
Its thread-like roots, gold and translucent white,
loop the river rocks piled in the mason jar.
Next to the bamboo a tiny blown out pinecone
reveals each of its inner folding sheets.
Inside there are small white dots, dots which are a mystery.
One of the winged seeds, fallen, lies next to it
like a wounded civilian.
In the corner of the window
an abandoned spiderweb breaks down.
The web used to shine, a taut geometry catching
the sunlight, but has since gathered weight,
turning its tendrils soft.
They sway gently back and forth when the radiator kicks on.
And of course, unforgiving, the dust
laying its shield over the sill.
This is old skin, the skin of those loved
and not loved, pollen, dirt, spores.
There is also a ceramic, hand-painted harbor seal
with wretched, doleful eyes.
In contrast, his wide hind flipper lifts joyfully
toward the sun. It's hard to say if this play
between sadness and joy is intentional.
Who is to say?