Bob Valentine 1946-2007Posted here (week 1729).
This is just a place: we go around, distanced, yearly in a star’s
atmosphere, turning daily into and out of direct light and
slanting through the quadrant seasons: deep space begins at our
heels, nearly rousing us loose: we look up or out so high, sight’s
silk almost draws us away: this is just a place: currents worry themselves
coiled and free in airs and oceans: water picks up mineral shadow and
plasm into billions of designs, frames: trees, grains, bacteria: but
is love a reality we made here ourselves– and grief–did we design
that–or do these, like currents, whine in and out among us merely
as we arrive and go: this is just a place: the reality we agree with,
that agrees with us, outbounding this, arrives to touch, joining with
us from far away: our home which defines us is elsewhere but not
so far away we have forgotten it: this is just a place.