FINDING THE OLD LANGUAGE

 Wayne Thiebaud

FINDING THE OLD LANGUAGE

In a rage to know all things,

Or as many things as it is possible

To know when one is eleven years old.

The divine walking amongst

Our friends, choosing this one

And that one, taking them away.

Unlacing their memories,

Giving their recognition of others

To the winds, to the birds,

Both flying away in a flurry of noise.

Electrical storms across the brain

At any time; just sitting there,

Getting out of bed, walking from one

Room to another.

All that was familiar

Suddenly not at all

Understandable.

Time without borders.

Anything could happen

At any instant,

Or perhaps not happen at all.

Waking from a summer nap.

The light, enchanting, over everything,

Temperature and sound engaged

In a magnificence of waking.

The world, yes!

Rulers of the mind,

All chemicals and fires

In the neurons and synapses.

More and more information

Beyond explanation.

The half-remarkable question:

"What is it that we are part of,

And what is it that we are?"

*

The delight of the dance,

The endless business of water.

That which is love,

Beneath the stars,

Inside all of sleeping,

Surrounded by its

Insistence on forever

Waking once again in the same

Room. Still here upon the Earth.

Doing things that become familiar,

To us. No longer surprised

By every act, by each event.

Moving through the day,

Learning laughter and

Helping one another to

Understand how something

Works. Finding the old

Language, the color, the

Limited means of expression.