Eons ago, he must have played beneath this tree
seeking shelter in the shade of summer leaves
with strange shades of a green, yellow, and red
glowing, universes circling overhead, filtering
out the painful incandescent memories emanating
from his childhood, from millions of miles away
speaking no words but understanding, knowing
a language only heard in a nonlinear tone
only known in a way with no concept of end
or beginning, a circular thought orbiting around itself
the river that empties into itself and is connected to
and is a reflection of, the evaporation of the sea that fills it
a magnificent and profound way of thinking to others—
a glimpse of a shooting star caught in the corner of God’s eye . . .
. . . and his mother wondering where his mind went
off to again, under that tree, another thought
experiment in the making, another journey
through a realm of vastness
endless corridors without walls
or any standard definitions
defying a logic lost so long ago
in the translations of dogma
and misguided religions, imagining
a way of thinking that is so much
more important than knowledge.
— James Eric Watkins was first accepted by Poetry Motel in late 2002, and is a nominee for a Pushcart and a Touchstone Award. He exists on the far side of sanity, better known as Indiana.