The Manual, Page 1.
It was simple enough:
to take a dried seed
and birth a nightingale.
Only that the work
was never explained
in great, formal details.
How would a dried seed, supposedly
dead, become a living thing?
Where would the life force
come from? Which devices
to be made? Who should I turn to
for advice? Questions were left
unseen and seeds kept turning,
nightingales soaring with their wings
almost dark enough to blend in
with the suede of the sky.
And I am but a mere mechanic.
I know the fixing, how things
should work in the eyes
of the common crowd, how words
should flow like birds gliding
in the air, like seeds falling
to the ground, landing on those
waiting hands. I am not
creator, examiner, the birthing mother.
It is not in me – the maternal love
for children born out of mostly frustration
and imaginative endings.
They are but expressions, feelings
conveyed naturally – they come
and go with ease, as they should
without the assurance of knowing.
How do they work? I don’t know.
What about the structures?
I do not follow them. I merely pick
the seeds in me and let them flower
into a summer bird. The tip
of my pen touches the pages
and soon enough words become
a vessel of my emotion, feathers blue
only to the eyes of those
understanding. It was simple:
to take a dried seed,
put it into the holes on your chest
water with the ink in your veins
and let it flower, and let it fly.