Writing – FORREST PRITCHARD

What I Don’t Know

I heard it first from Socrates—
Wind through the mind,
Rosemary blossoms and bumblebees.
What I don’t know could fill a universe.

An atheist in high school, dismissing
Warring clans. Trademarking truth!
Pragmatically insisting that
What I don’t know could fill a universe.

I was married, divorced. With all
The best intentions of course.
So many opportunities. Am I cursed?
What I don’t know could fill a universe.

Soften your gaze and it becomes clear—
Gently crosseyed, leaping dolphins appear.
Learning in reverse that
What I don’t know could fill a universe.

Gurus at the pizza place—
Bringers of light! Yoga teaches
We can stand on our face.
What I don’t know could fill a universe.

At last, the sun in April. Glowing trees!
Illuminated day, breathing lilac!
Clouds too bright to see!
What I don’t know could fill a universe.

Abrupt distractions—
Cherry petals affixed
To my boot soles, now
Peppering the pavement.

No, not pepper—
Pastel. Softness,
The sopping skies
Salted with sighs,

Cars cresting the round
Mountain, moving
Clouds in all directions.
Neon vaporous April.

We forget! How abruptly
We are reminded—
Trails of cherry
Blossoms beneath our feet,

We do well to let go.

Not far from the highway
Two sycamores rise from

The same stump, so alike
In every way they appear

To be twins. But nothing is
Completely identical; lives

Are composed of contrast.
And although from the road

They seem to be greeting
Passersby synchronistically,

It’s just as easy to interpret
One is waving goodbye to

The other: “I’m aware you
Believed we were united,”

One tree says to the other,
Its back turned for a century,

“But farewell. We’re certain
To meet once more—after

All, we have sprung from
The same root for eternity.”

Oh, mirror! We never see
Our eyes—only reflections

In the gaze of new lovers,
The glass of passing cars,

Until, leaving the body we turn,
At last recognizing ourselves.