A Poem: The Thing Unnamed

At the heart of all,

where matters of life and death coalesce as spirit,

-a thing unnamed exists.

Where a body regenerates from compost and a sigh too deep to be heard,

sends shock waves back up into the universe,

this thing unnamed rises to be known, to be loved and to be feared

– and to be named.

This thing cascades in ten thousand colors,

Sings every planetary song,

yet whispers to be known from the depths of rank terror.

To be unnamed is to be given so many names that not one fits.

Well, not for long.

Sometimes one name holds you close until you turn the page,

around the bend of yesterday and encounter today

the next extraordinary expression of that which is both sacred and profane.

This thing unnamed is kaleidoscopic in being, yet without walls.

Uncontained – except in skin, and bones and fur and feathers.

Uncontained - except in agony of paradox until heart breaks open and it flies free again.

How can this one without one name multiply and migrate as an everlasting dance with change?

And - be all names pounded together into earth dust.

A sifted wisdom flying free on the winds of time

for us to capture

and for a moment – to name.

Carol Kortsch

1/5/2025