From the Cave

In the hidden cave
buried in the leaves -
up on the mountain -
tragedy
and autumn
and the low-grade philosopher:
did it matter
that the west wind blew
from the east?
impossible contradiction?
or that the autumn leaves,
falling, turned green
on contact
with the brown earth?

In the cave
facing out toward the east
and the orange streaked
setting sun
the philosopher -
in thought and pre-occupation,
guided his gaze and concern
beyond the entrance:
surely there was a sign…

Before the pause
there appeared the line:
the blank consummate
of turning time
contrasted with the green leaves
and the red-turning grass;
an optical illusion?
a mental diversion,
distortion, contortion?
a dis-illusion
or finally a vision?
a true site, insight,
a grasping of now-seen truths
beyond the cave?

The low-grade philosopher
continued his thoughts
and his un-wavering gaze
to the east,
to the flamboyant colors,
to the wavering sun:
distorted illusions?
intuitions,
contorted confusions?
or subtly,
finally,
at last perceived
a truth's multi-colored fusion…

In the hidden cave
buried in the leaves -
up on the mountain -
tragedy - and quiet…
and autumn
and the low-grade philosopher,
and the wind blown
covering, autumn's
multi-colored leaves…