It was there

right there

on woodland’s playground

when I first knew

something stirs very wrong.

 

I was blind to balls

hurled at me,

being It is not why I grow my mind and body,

or is it?

 

I am “It!”

or at least half It.

 

It and I play best alone.

He slows down

to notice ocean surf

waving back and forth

an ocean sighing Hi, then low,

creeping in and sucking out.

It both hugs and climbs trees

to the very top

on windy ways

to wave back.

 

Why is It so shy?

Or, am I hiding her-him,

I’m not sure,

some of both

but too androgynous Him

fears no one else notices

surf rolls in and reverses out.

 

It knows bi-natured law

prehensile full-bodied grasp

of organic life’s humorous ambiguity

creative ambivalence

righteous equivalent functions and flows

of yang with yin within,

as without,

below,

as above,

before,

as to come,

long,

as to belong now,

together.

 

It’s so hard to not love

not share

bare

expose cooperatively unbalancing It.

S/he is soo… much fun!

laughs with everyone

generous enough to return this fine favor.

It’s polypathic polyculturing

binomial binary buddha brain

saturates flowering rain

dissects words to heal disharmonic logos

through permacultured alchemy linguistics,

a language It fears to ultimately find

merely eisegetical,

 

It chooses Red Rover

over soccer,

plays teacher with girls

over driving trucks and trains,

thinks compulsively about this problem of evil

while watching Leave it to Beaver,

where Father Knows Best,

over pitching stones and driving tractor.

 

It feels older and wiser than Him

but they are born twins

or so it seems

but It mysteriously explores incarnating cycles,

watching double-funneling raincloud whirlwinds

wind wending Elder ways

etching whorlwaters in our sea of shared identity,

or is whipping wind following whirling water,

but certainly both?

It abhors stability,

but adores regenerating solidarity.

 

It mentors ecotherapy with trees and me,

shows me boundary issues and branch

functions and frequencies

between August’s Yangish fire

and winter’s quenching white snow and ice,

between autumn’s wind falling regenetic harvest

and spring’s diastolic succulent soil

decomposing nutrients

growing new perennial rings in this life’s tree,

new leaves of grass-fed hope

new polyculture basic, simple-rich compost

new incarnating multisystemic

ecotherapeutic grace,

responsive

resolving

resonant within evil’s missing

non-polynomial dislogical pace,

new flowers and fruit

for Eden’s farm.

 

Did I just call It a fruit

out loud?

Shit happens inside our playground,

while planning more polyculturally redemptive lives.