To trace a thought
to its inception
seemed a worthwhile task ..
the mind had sown a seed that flowered.
But how, I ask?
I stared into that inward space to concentrate ..
the trail is cold;
perhaps I’m looking in the wrong place.
But no; distractions obscure the path, I realise ..
like weeds, they proliferate.
I close my eyes.
Why seek the beginning?
Why waste time on that?
That thought is born, will live a while and die ..
Questions to ponder; I turn them over like a plough ..
on them I ruminate ..
Have I stumbled upon a truth?
It is not the conception of a thought I sought
but the genesis of I … .
atomsofstars 
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What questions, Marya! I sometimes wonder at what we might find if ever we could trace the origin of anything at all. But I? While I love “the genesis of I” I am tempted to try to see something else that might be just behind it.
Shall I risk a guess? or admit defeat? 🙂
Hello Jamie … it’s good to see you this morning. Hope all is well in the Flatlands and the garden is safely tucked up for the onset of Winter …
Risk a guess ? Yes, please do 🙂
Happy day and night, poetess! A pansy for your thoughts, thinking about Halloween, of splendid etymology…Give me a recipe for cooking the pumpkins, please , and don’t turn into a pumpkin…Thank you..
Good evening , Didacus … thank you. I don’t know a recipe for cooking pumpkins and I am trying not to become one 🙂
Here’s a wonderfully appropriate poem for All-Hallows-Eve by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow …
Haunted Houses ..
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.
There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.
The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.
We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.
The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.
Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.
These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star
An undiscovered planet in our sky.
And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,—
So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.
Good morning, Gothic poetess! Thank you very much for giving me the best recipe you could have given, for All-Hallows-Eve…’There [were] more guests at table than the hosts / invited;……../’…There were Archbishop Ruggieri and Count Ugolino, too, who ‘His mouth uplifted from his grim repast,/’…
Good morning, Didacus … Apologies for not acknowledging your comment sooner … I’m pleased you enjoyed the poem .. and thank you for the reference to Dante’s great work. What a truly terrible tale related by Count Ugolino !