To Look At Mud Poem by Stefan BR

Therefore, there was no cobblestone,
but I could barely dare to tell you,
to look at the mud,
and the overgrown dust on the walls -
as the silver-lined cobblestones
knitted a clear horizon with blue brushes
on the grey-brown fields,
& the vessels of my eyes, the foam of my iris
were helmeted in a silver-shining colossus-statue.
When I barely started to feel -
I took flesh and a string
& needled my blood
& eyes
& touch
to mud,
to the architecture of the ground.
There I grew a tree
where I could hang my sight
in the wind -
& learn how to shiver,
& with the change of season,
to grow and to decay,
& then sever a leaf or two
like a word from a cracked lip,
fading in the dance of the air,
and the vortex of the ear.
And maybe then,
I'd learn
how to die
as well.