I am the plus one

[billy]

i see little to connect to. i don't get a sense of time or god, or breeze. i get a sense of the black and white minstrels from L,three's black hands though i do realize they wore white gloves. okay, to be fair i id get the passage of time but not one that worked well. it all feels to contrived, the zepher comes to where what stands? us, history? a place in time? after reading all the revisions there's a feeling that the workshopping are more re writes than edits. 5 edits in such a short time. while easy edits such as an odd word or a few punctuation marks can be done on the fly. major edits need to be thoughts about. if you keep editing this way you will sooner or later end up with a good poem do you really want to be like the monkeys in a room with their typewriters though? i hope not. step away from the poem for a week or two, even a month and then when you come back to it you might see it with better eyes and understanding. sorry for the largish feedback i could have done a lot more but it's in novice so i didn't. great to have you on the site

This is my current project, and I am interested to hear feedback. It is another poem that makes use of mathematical concepts. 

Here is another revision to the poem, I converted it into more natural images and made it less abstract to help people connect with the poem; along with a new title. Plus I added two more additional conceptual elements. 

I have made another significant revision. 

5th Revision.

The Zephyr

I am the passing zephyr, come to where you stand, so you're really a stopping zephyr?
as you measure all movement
with your two black hands, that move
from twelve to twelve again. As I drift away this reads as [as i drift away together]
together we flow down the cobblestone lane, [as i] [we flow]? needs transition, no comma needed
that the march of history made, stone by stone. in reality history sort of fades away, it's the past, behind us


As we pass you reclaim the rock they laid,
with your endless cycle of sun, earth, wind and rain.
We move down the reach of this ancient street,
until we meet your rapid whitewaters
that carves the mountain in your decay. sorry but there's too much; who where and whats need to shown give some imagery


Over the cyclone rage of your river we go,
into a vast breach of maple trees; so far this is the only good line
they lose their green to the touch of your season shine.
Their now crimson leaves, dip in your evening flare; no comma needed after leaves
then in your midnight stare they are coma possibly after stare
stripped to twisted gray, and frozen in your Winter ice.


But as you sing the song of Spring,
this slumbering land awakes,
and from the soil of all that cannot last,
the living green renews, and the worms
turn the dirt, the elk and the grass.


Until we come to my final destination:
A forgotten meadow of white summer bear grass;
hidden by the surrounding ponderosa pine.
And next to an abandoned cottage,
that is in crumble and overgrown with green, wht does [in crumble] mean
you lie, as a silent pond that rest there. the simile doesn't work, [ponds aren't in crumble] [that rest there]makes the pond seem transitory

So peaceful and clear you are, that if it was not very yoda-esk stanza
for the gentle dip of earth, rock and clay,
your waters I would have not seen.
And I am the passing zephyr,
an intruder into this sacred shrine;
and with my briefest kiss on your crystal surface,
I ripple to your endless edge.