Waiting on a poem

 
As I sit
 and wait
  for God or the muse
   or caffeinated brain chemistry
    to give me a poem,
I’m noticing a strange reflection on my wall
 and resisting the urge to investigate its origins.

Just… watch…

I see the shape of a tree --
 strong, bright, curved roots
  drawing nourishment of pure sunlight,
   into its branches, reaching…
but no, they’re no longer branches now, but ocean waves --
 an incessant flow of ups and downs
  wrapping around the corner of the wall
   into new territory
And over it all, an overlay
 of vertical shadow streaks,
  getting darker by the second
   like rain down a window pane
    obliterating the image
     on this glorious bright day

And now the tree is but a memory –
 unrecognizable,
  you wouldn’t believe me if I tried to point it out.
And the waves have become wind lines,
 spirit moving through the blurry memory
  until it’s almost tree-like again,
but now
 a different sort of tree
  with a trinity of wind lines
   spreading to a perpendicular
    plane of existence…
Where now flames (or maybe they’re dendrites)
 reach towards one another
  and move around the next corner…

And the whole thing continuously morphs and merges,
building and rebuilding trees and oceans
as the light
the constant light
moves from one wall to the next


.