Sunday, August 30, 2015

One Art

Perhaps a sentence that enters the body through the eye is taking the long road, not a shortcut. And while a page of text is a lovely thing to handle and see in perfect silence, once it begins to speak and sing inside me, I want to know how far it likes to walk.

Maybe words rest on the assumption that language comes out of the mouth. Yet a good sentence fits the entire human body: heart, hands and feet, ankle, knees and elbows as well as tongue. Words wander along the rooted edge of the tight-lipped, light-tipped grass as I forage for a story grown from seed on this quiet summer morning. It is very lonely living with them lost.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

A Single Something Finished

Perhaps the idea of life as a single something finished is as fleeting as a whirl of smoke from a winter chimney. One life doesn't follow a single path but many, changing unremittingly over time.

Maybe for some life starts out as a squawking flock of geese flying north, shaped like a flame, that later becomes a crowd combing the beach for diamonds washed to shore from a pirate's loot. For others life begins as an approaching wall of black clouds dissolving into a purple sunset, eventually culminating in a quiet pile of leaves decaying on the back porch.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Between Two Horizons

Perhaps plants grow in the meadow and very high in the mountains that are the front and back of one body. When I gather and eat the seven herbs of spring, my spirit becomes gentle and calm.

Maybe if children eat the insects living in trees, this will cure their violent crying tantrums. Moths, if you shake the powder from their wings first, are very tasty. That is to say, if one accepts what is near at hand, all goes well.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Following the Line

Perhaps a small gleam begins to touch the edge of things. It happens without much fuss. Deer that stand still as trees with their color blending in suddenly become visible as they lift their heads to smell the wet, sweet air that belongs to creeks, trees and clouds.

Maybe the presence of a chickadee on the low branch of a birch, curious and spilling silver notes, flashes in the gentle morning as my eyes follow the soft gray streak of a dove racing over the vineyard toward the afternoon's warmth. I follow along the edge without lifting my attention from the delicate rustle of my stride, as if creating a blind contour drawing from words and wings to keep the line alive.