Taking Dreams for Memories

Perhaps we long for the lifting fog to permanently soften the sharp edges of rugged tree trunk and jagged stone, to smooth lines etched deep under our aging eyes. In this way nothing is better than blur, soft like a child, lines without a blade in them. 

Maybe as the new goes on replacing the old, a pristine love arrives in us each morning, fresh as bird song after a balmy starlit night. It gently spreads through the air until a small wind arrives and blows it back to earth, note by note. Carried away by a quick-moving stream, it moves along and continues to sing wherever the water is going: a flicker of eyelid, a turning of cheek, a sudden unexpected touch.

Behold the Butterfly

Perhaps the butterfly, wings etched with stars, moons and suns, is nothing more than an expansion into lightless light, darkless dark. Once set in motion she passes from spray to spray along unkempt meadows where grass blades pushing upward are as seeds completing their shape; where the music of finches darting overhead composes a wordless song.   

Maybe it is in the form of a butterfly that we might most enjoy the springtime, dallying with leaf and flower as nectar rises in the rigid stems of blossoms bursting open within its flow. Before long a rustle in the grasses calls for our keenest attention, as here as anywhere the slightest pinch or flick of motion or sound conveys an impression of something living everywhere within, born of the same small twig of pulse.