The poets have scattered you.
A storm ripped through their stammering.
I want to gather you up again
in a vessel that makes you glad.
I wander in your winds
and bring back everything I find.
The blind man needed you as a cup.
The servant concealed you.
The homeless one held you out as I passed.
You see, I like to look for things.
What is it about the art of gathering that fascinates me so? My deep belief that we come to know through riddles runs parralel with my heart's aching for that which is lost in life. Some things are lost from my life, sometimes I am lost from life. The cure for lost-ness is journeying home. Wandering in the the wind as Rilke says. The image is priceless for me. The image speaks of pieces that deserve to be remembered as my own. Re-membered.
Yet looking for things is not the same as actually collecting things. I can look for things and believe they belong to the new environment and never reach for them. The art of gathering is not just the act of looking for things, but daring to believe that one thing belongs to another and remembering them.
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