Quintessence of Dust

. . . lost between two infinities,

the infinitely large and the infinitely small.

- Blaise Pascal -

Among the khaki husks of last Fall's weeds

in Henry Second's Umberland a small

white flower leans in slightest zephyrs, bends

beneath the weight of but a cabbage moth,

then bobbing once again erect when free.

The chill of early evening settles on

a field beside a clear May stream about

a boisterous Saxon band emerging from

marauding raids against the Norman king’s

dominion over lands that once were theirs.

Through star-pricked deepest night, an aging fire

beside the forest’s foot protects the warmth

of slumber’s innocence while not one league

away, among the cooling ashes of

a manor house the grotesque slaughtered sleep.

The gray beginnings of the day arise

above the coughing embers’ dying glow,

while horses and dark grumbling men awake

to preparations for the violence

ancestral vengeance passed on to its kin.

Inside the great depression of a boot

beside a fire's heap, a small white bloom

lies flat among the skeletons of last

Fall's weeds where yet another flower will

tomorrow sway to merest thoughts of wind.

petefreas