Moving Water

Perhaps rain is an artist that transfigures all as it cuts through stone and loosens the fragrance of flowers. Enveloped in a shapeless air with our towns of fixed streets and houses, we wait for this transitory guest to arrive and dissolve whatever is caught, hardened or entangled as it swirls through the shade of our tenements and fills our inner wells with a fresh source of the elemental.

Or maybe rain is the elegant return of memory, the heart of the earth held open to receive the buoyancy of its dream-filled flowing forth; a liquid that does what words would love – seldom pushing or straining while keeping all unlikeliness to itself.

 

Night of the Knight (guest blogger Julian Magdalenski, age 12)

 

 

Perhaps darkness, creeping around the corner, gobbles everything that it sees. It jumps from building to person to person – to anything that it please. Little does life know that it is not spreading but running from the light. The soul of the sky.

 

Maybe the only thing that night wants is not to go into that light so bright, to fight the light and grow in height. Become a knight of the night.

The Performance (guest blogger Tess P)

Perhaps the performance was encouraged by the onlookers as they rose slightly in their chairs and showed their white and tender knuckles as they braced the arms of their theater seats; and the orchestra was drowned out by gasps as the aerialist seemed to be alone up there, without any support, only one of her legs crossing a red band of silk as she spun wildly about us.

Maybe we grew faint and transfixed as the woman dangled her life in front of us as if we were watching a house on fire and wondering if all of the sleepers were found, wondering if all of the closets were opened, if under the beds the floors were scanned by an eye for such detail because our very lives may depend upon it.