Natural State

You're contemplating composition
the narration of your Creation    
my observation a programmed
germination for the silent
birth of the Poem
in its Natural state.
   
Aged Scotch over rocks    
though never seemingly empty    
your plans fill and refill.    
The cubes knock each other about    
in the subway compartment of glass    
they don't know each other    
each on a mission    
from something other than    
their natural state,    
always changing    
never noticing    
some molecules    
luckier than others.    
   
I notice the face I will see    
when you get older.    
I recite the Poetry of your Being    
from the tip of your Organics    
brushing against the chrome    
covering so much more    
so much more    
than the natural state of me.    
   
Will I recognize the place    
I'm in now as our beginning.    
Or, will I eventually not remember    
how I came to be assembled    
my memory shot with Time    
exposed wires dangling    
from their natural state.    
   
Will I turn and turn down the road    
further away from this planet    
malfunctioning through the thicket    
maybe even return to Source    
on an asteroid burning
the Milky Way's back
in its Natural state.  
   
Will I convert into something    
unknown from your history:
A leaf creature, small elf,    
garden gnome, perhaps    
Will my circuits rattle against    
each other in their natural state    
on top or bottom, clacking room    
to room for no apparent reason.    
   
Because to metal    
there is no real Death    
No real Life either, just the natural state    
of their Creation moving like a ruin,    
   
slow and plank.    
   
You will gaze at me,    
the way you're gazing at me now,    
looking from me to the ice and back    
waiting for the natural state    
of things to end the God-battle    
of Creative license.
   
The buzzing sound of your thoughts    
that will not clank, or even break    
even unto the formation    
of ice falling, or perhaps    
a small woodland creature jumping    
from its natural state    
into your lap, linking arms    
with the spoon on your napkin.    
   
A rude happening    
always makes sweet and pure    
a seemingly unchanging    
decision or out of sorts    
circumstance
from its natural state    
   
My lips twitch a smile    
the moment you realize    
the Artificial Intelligence    
manifested by design  
becomes anything but less    
than Pure Poetics
born of a Natural State.    
   
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