A WORLD OF ILLUSIONS ON A LATE WINTER'S MORNING

The wind throws the newly fallen snow up in the air like a child

in the mind of the human being who once was that child

and now gives the wind and the lost child a new life

together, united, the force of nature and the memory

buried in the flesh of a person too old

to let that child go free except in the guise of a winter's

cold breeze, throwing snow and laughing in the howling,

the mind weaving the two together as brief existence

as the wind and the snow, soon gone the way of Villon's

snow of last year, this brain that remembers

the child and Ovid on his bleak shore of exile

going through his own metamorphosis; we,

the brief figments of nature, brief illusions

captured to flesh and blood and bone and thought

in a universe that came from and returns to nothingness.

In our own illusions we see the illusion we are.

17.03.2019