How will you go about finding that thing
the nature of which is totally unknown
to you? asks Meno. I don’t know, dear,
I want to say; or, you ask far too many
difficult questions. Does the wren’s
endless chirping sound like a query
about immortal life, about what the soul
might have brought in its carry-on luggage
when it traveled here from its previous life?
You talk about anamnesis, or what the soul
knows innately so that it should be no
big shakes to meditate upon and recollect
these in the here and now. So then why
do I wring my hands, most days, from not
knowing the littlest thing? Weather,
for starters, but not only; more crucial,
those big important questions that rattle
at the windows all night long: like how
much time do I have to get my act together
before curtains? When is the intermission?
Or, can I go out, just by myself for a long
walk, and not have to come back so soon?
It’s April but some flakes blow about
in the wind, each lacy cutout different
from the others. You catch a few of them
on the edge of your dark sleeve before
their brief outlines melt. Their souls—
where do they return, and do they bear
back with them all that radiant and
intricate design, spoked like a wheel?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.