Maybe as the first soft peach decree of light descends upon what remains of our great decision, its illumination appears small and scattered. We pass by a clearcut forest, and immediately notice the absence of shadow once cast by spreading branches and sprawling, silvery trunks. Sometimes a rush of doves reminds us that the world is a place where mystery does not ask of us to be mistaken for its being. It is as if the tight weave of shiny threads that capture dolphins in the reflective nets of our making tug our attention away from the urgency of the dark stain spreading out from behind the fishing boat, the horizon turning brown.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Atlas of Goodbyes #3 (a collaboration with Tess P)
Perhaps it is a small gesture that we practice saying goodbye to you in this way – you are everywhere: postcards, baseball hats, sweatshirts, tote bags, water bottles, coffee cups, Christmas cards and so on… (should I mention bumper stickers?). Perhaps you will survive some adaptation. Your beauty and that of the frozen landscape is disappearing, a diminishing resource. Today the news of over-crowded, capsized boats on the Mediterranean Sea. Lost forever, no looking back, a chance taken knowing death was there, willing to barter with life for a just life. How can I speak of both of you? Why?
Maybe as the first soft peach decree of light descends upon what remains of our great decision, its illumination appears small and scattered. We pass by a clearcut forest, and immediately notice the absence of shadow once cast by spreading branches and sprawling, silvery trunks. Sometimes a rush of doves reminds us that the world is a place where mystery does not ask of us to be mistaken for its being. It is as if the tight weave of shiny threads that capture dolphins in the reflective nets of our making tug our attention away from the urgency of the dark stain spreading out from behind the fishing boat, the horizon turning brown.
Maybe as the first soft peach decree of light descends upon what remains of our great decision, its illumination appears small and scattered. We pass by a clearcut forest, and immediately notice the absence of shadow once cast by spreading branches and sprawling, silvery trunks. Sometimes a rush of doves reminds us that the world is a place where mystery does not ask of us to be mistaken for its being. It is as if the tight weave of shiny threads that capture dolphins in the reflective nets of our making tug our attention away from the urgency of the dark stain spreading out from behind the fishing boat, the horizon turning brown.
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