if i say i love and it was not predicted by an algorithm, is it really love or an act of resistance. i don’t want to be mapped, charted, measured. i want to say lost and taste that word like salt from another ocean. i want to loose myself again and again to this six…
there always was enough time. stretched, held like a breath between drops of rain plummeting from a vanishing point, one by one. time enough to close our eyes, open our mouths to that infinite sky wait for the inevitable fall giddy with the taste rain.
all through the night out along the ocean clouds call in salt voices speaking rain, while up in the hills morning comes cool as rivers, infinite blue and still the goose shouts horizon to horizon claiming this perfect sky.
the dew comes before the stars cloying my clothes and damping the grass as i pull the season’s growing from the paths, clear the ponds of roots and stem for autumn rain. a new crescent rides the fading sky and mist is breathing the valleys – under my feet the soil cools, singing the song…
and what did i ever have but this silence and the sound of my words falling like pebbles to a well.
under the quiet arc of a waiting sky a new moon rises, pushing the changing tide, unseen.
if it was longing that brought us here, life longing for life – for river tree bird love flower ache – reach hand stretch across the dark empty with nothing but our own light to show the way. if it was longing that brought us here, then let us be this here this bird…
beyond the quiet of leaf drip as night rain gathers along veins deep grooved to spill from leaves new touched by the awakening day, beyond the calls of birds summoning the sun, beyond the noiseless sound of barefeet on damp paths in the morning, a tree waits rooted in the silence at the edge of…
don’t speak to me about sweet annihilation, about a love, a god that obliterates when we have lived this perfect obliteration our bodies counting moons and seasons – barely able to contain the exuberance of bird song in spring and the quiet perfect longing of winters’ dark night. for generations we have thrown our bones…
it is the half moon that rises in this cricket wing sky while hadedas, loud to the horizon, find roost among the darkening trees.