Thursday, July 19, 2007
Sunday, July 08, 2007
You said that there was a bulb in the center of the forest that illuminates.
I imagined a round globe, spotted with crusted gnats bodies that flew too close and got stuck to the brightness.
The bulb swinging from a tree limb like a pendulum.
Or did you mean that the secrets in that dark wooded place are leavening, enlightening?
I sit on my bottom in the darkest spot and only get anxious.
But I am learning that this comes in small stages.
Sit down in the parking lot and all of a sudden the fallen leaves will rustle across the concrete,
stir you from your magazine. You were just watching, but suddenly you are rustling too.
Then it's done. Momentary.
I went walking with you and you were talking about the bulb.
Rings, the qualities of union.
In thin vegetal slices, I find rings and want to show you.
In lens flare, half moon rings; in flowers, trembling petals that ring around the center.
Around your finger, there is a ring,
around this walk, we combine to make one, and sing.
(ring around a rosey, pockets full of posies)
An old sled dog.
You can see it in the eye- in the resignied whimper.
There must be some measure of worth playing out here:
something neccesary for survival.
They are going through, marking the diseased trees and
tagging the ones that can stay, that won't spread.
who created these road maps,
who made the end tests?
with wanting and eager eyes,
wash their hair outside in the hot sun,
peek through doorways at the tourists in the street,
corral children and stray roosters.
Birds alight on monastery eaves
watching the dance below
10,000 leaves fall from the backyard tree
spotted yellow in the immediacy of new autumn
the leaves are resurrected as: black bird stretched across cerulean sky
it starts as a death, as a spirit let go,
the plainness of an open face in the new day.
resurrection is: a simple thing, an everyday thing
something old passing, and that transition creating something new
This crow flies out of the frame and off to chase the vulture
(who is necessary in this narrative, though no one seems to like him)
That vulture, who picks up the tender ends of what once was
and carries them through into
becoming something new
Who plays the part of the griffin,
asking riddles, manning the way-station
letting in the lost
The day after Halloween, it rained.
paper ghosts hung from tree limbs, got soggy
and fell into the collected piles of leaves on the ground.
I was walking slowly, fresh paint was collecting into puddles on the concrete.
I am learning to tell this story
so that the twists are my own:
ghosting makes rain; makes these new rituals lose their unfortunate legacies,
rain washes everything back to its origins.
I can take this kind of sadness
and carry it in my pocket until it is shiny and polished,
looking like new silver, looking like something somebody might want.