“If I Saw an Ancient Tree in the Yard of Einstein’s Boyhood Home”

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.

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