moon batchelder (04-27-55 / bemidji, minnesota)

it's true, a cup can hold no more than
it's capacity.
nor mortal vision see beyond
it's perspicacity.

nor mind a thought may frame or grasp
that lies outside it's ken.
nor man, a god perceive beyond
the measurement of man.

a bowl can only be so full,
until no more contained;
it overflows it's boundaries
so that just a cup remains.

what of the flute? consider...
it's body riddled full of holes;
yet who can set a limit on
the melodies it holds?

could not we, like a flute be held
by the blessed piper's hands.
experiencing melodies
ourselves had never planned?

could not a notion, or a thought
be briefly entertained;
that, like the piper's breath, flows through
not meant to be contained?

yet meanwhile leaves it's subtle voice
to linger in the air,
and memories of the song
what time the song's no longer there?

perhaps this mortal span of years,
these mortal eyes and such,
are like the flute, an instrument,
surrendered to the touch

of something, - god or otherwise-
perhaps we thus transcend
the limits that a cup defines;
the boundaries of man.