From the way the pine needles
quake and sputter
I see the wind that will march across the lake
tomorrow or the day after
fluttering my back
as if I were still among the Colonials
and the deflated Santas of the day after
wandering in the music of the past
listening for the beat of tomorrow.
Tired of all who come with words, words but no language I went to the snow-covered island. The wild does not have words. The unwritten pages spread themselves out in all directions! I come across the marks of roe-deer's hooves in the snow. Language but no words.
The brown hues stand in contrast to the other Van Goghs in the room. The lone figure on horseback moves across a sere earth, the sodden ruts. Above, the sky emits a light -preternaturally radiant- not reaching the bowed human figure.
I drink matcha from an earthen bowl. Slowly, a familiar warmth suffuses me. Clarity emerges. The senses enliven. I call a friend. Later, more tea; this time, an oolong I share with E.
The day ripens, and the moments connect.
In an unexpected way that never fails to jar
it comes through with an immediacy:
a photo of faces still known to me
cousins now grown with their children
on a grainy surface of facebook pixels
a head caught averted in a procession of black
my father making the trip over in time
placing a bough for his brother.
John Fowles, in his essayistic gem, The Tree, touches on the unconscious as a wellspring of creativity. He uses the woods as a metaphor, calling it a green chaos.
We venture into the green chaos with trepidation and exhilaration, not quite sure of what we will find there.
Likewise, each night we dream, plunged into our individual unconscious -our chaos- to be imbued with images that linger with us well into our waking hours. These images provoke associations, and we follow them on a journey where the destination is only revealed upon our reaching it.
Like the pith of an oak
that is unseen in a steadfast way
against the rushes of a nighttime wind
we have alone and with one another
in laughter, in conversation
our own pith despite time
returning to ourselves again and again.
It is inevitable
this fall of the season
the rite of descending from my bike
the startled midair flight
then gazing into my neighbor's face
her concerned smile
from a yellow Beetle
and us crossing paths
lamenting over the brevity of a season.
Willows of late summer when you
start to shed your turned colors
I remember already
the light soaked rooms
and windows flung open
where Prajna sprawls on her well-warmed paws.
Last night I heard an owl hoot.
With certainty I pulled out his threnody
from the drone of cicadas
and broken ripple of crickets
while we sat around the bonfire
S'mores held aloft in the cool grove of evergreens
with the light and smoke in our eyes.
I harvested the leaves of our lemon verbena plant to make a tisane. E expressed some reservation with the idea, when rubbing a leaf of the plant between two fingers he pronounced the scent emitted to be that of Lemon Pledge.
I plucked ten hardy leaves, downy with gentle serrations, placed them in a glass teapot, and waited for the water to boil.
Would it taste like an antiseptic cleanser or would I be transported to a grove of lemon saplings where summer never fades?
I watched a lone leaf pirouette in midair before its final descent while I sipped the liquor of honey and limes.
At the roundtable of the unknighted
solace is found
when the inchoate blossoms in daylight
and what once was felt in solitude
in the quietude of the mind
now flows down one river
through a mangle of thorns and rocks.
A single body keeps its course
Atlas unshrugged in his purpose
enfolding us in supple arms.