Holly L. Thomas

Burrs

After “Concerning the Atoms of the Soul” by John Glenday

You seem to be arriving sideways

beyond my edge of sight,

impression of motion, hint of spin.

You befriend a seeker of quiet.

You know I have to drift to earth again

and stay here,

ash from perennial fire.

But nothing in this is passive.

Gravity is an act of falling.

We leap--out, not down,

none of us ever sure which world

gathered us last time

or will gather us next.

If we are perfect

spheres of soul

slipping down through layer

after layer

toward some impossible center,

our bodies are burrs,

snags in shaggy coats grabbing passing furs

with ingenious hooks,

determined to get somewhere--

anywhere we can break apart and open:

ultimate friction,

barbed fruit,

odds one in a million,

the full million ready.