Being OZ

Sanity.
An object.
A passionate center.
Something round which the ideas can drift and circle and twist,
And suddenly grip with ferocious energy
To descend, a tornado from the sky,
Ripping across the fields of cottony white 25% rag,
leaving things stricken, scattered.

They trace the path of mindstorm.

There is ever a difference
Between carefully piling up debris,
Saying to passersby,
"Here, a violent storm of life passed,"
And, upon looking back,
Upon seeing stretched out behind,
Twisted, heaped windfalls and logjams of tangled meanings,
Saying, "The I has passed by and that is what I did."

Where the barometer cruised at zero.

Slowly descending from such transports
As the page reaches the bottom --
And I risk uprooting or twisting or knocking apart something
Other / with / than my fingers melded to black & white keys --
I might try to say that from the point of view
Of one coming upon a wild windfall in the forest;
How made no difference and, too,
Careful grounded rooted constructing
Is as good as wild blowing.

If you can.