poetry

Pitch and Plunge
by Edith L. Tiempo

Motion shakes things into life.
Even being without breath,
Like a child’s swing
Or a catch-ball flying,
These are moved from death
To sudden vibrancy. Strife
Or play, the bee humming
Stirs the lotus to lift
Its placid gorgeousness, to shift
The innocent tissue’s dream
Of sun and tumid rain
And to consider the fulfilling pain.

No matter how the heart’s edge
Takes the weaving wind,
It is the secret rage,
The tremors in the stalks and boughs
That spark the gloom
Of apprehension. Moving
To side, around, forward-
And-back, by crab, spider,
By the pendulum,
By the earth’s slow turn,
Is lifeless
And without love, unless
Blood rises to the scarred
Cheek, and eye and tongue and finger
Know the truest act is inward-
Outward. So the heart can learn
With pitch and plunge, to rouse
Divinity to mind
The twig’s tap,
The bee’s hum.

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