Three Natures of Thought
by Theo Johnson
I. Synthesis
I think it’s all a fountain. A pool
of gathered water*, guided up
through pipes and tubes, drawn
to rise along delicate architecture,
[the architect, still unknown, toiled for years to make this]
and at the precipice, it’s all presented, out,
out into the air that’s ready to hold it. Over and
arching, flying in front of everything,
seen and made beautiful by sight itself,
an apex of divine journey,
then, as soon as it’s presented,
it falls,
falling back into the
pool from which it came.
waiting to be
made beautiful
again.
II. Decision
Then I think of the slight lumps of water*, folding over a lake as wind creases gently, disturbed
maybe by a goose taking off, screaming as it does. But undisturbed, water wavers and wiggles
slightly, as shapes of ovals dance over and through each other, morphing and mingling ever so
gently in a waltz atop water, slipping between twisting ellipses that reflect green tree and slate
sky, forever plodding in a perpetual palette, always lingering on the surface, like the supple
wrinkles of an uncrumpled paper, or the cells of a tree moving and shifting in and out, or if you
took every blown bubble and laid each lump across a plane of fluid illusion, giving each timid
fellow the freedom to choose when to float up and be seen, or fall back down,
and each decision affects its neighbor. III. Dormancy
Inside the tree, there’s only
a small ring that’s alive.
Between bark and heartwood, the cambium
constantly sheds death. The inner side shores back
cells in hardened crowds,
erecting a core toughened by decay.
And on the other side,
like an army of shed carcasses
cells are sent out in legions, building
a bark of unlimited withered parts.
The cambium, this death
an unending dormancy,
waters* the tree’s permanence.
*This is more than water. This is every moment, every thought, every word.
The sunset is starting soon; I must see it in full over the ocean.