Saturday, September 13, 2014

Beloved Sun, why such a sideways glance? On every hill, in each vale, Flora outdoes itself in a bid to gladden the eye of Ra with swirling tapestries of scarlet, gold, maroon and green. The rivers are in a hurry to flow down to the sea, to greet the salmon as it leaps in the other direction.  Fare thee well, blessed summer.

Within the change there is a wind, stirring, lifting the branches.

The birch-leaves scatter, heart-shaped coins, dropping upon the grass.

While holding a piece of jade, taken from a mountain of serpentine, I close my eyes.

There is no more eye, only aye. And there the golden shower is unceasing. Thoughts descend in translucent geometries, as if in crystal-flakes and keys to knowledge not yet unlocked, as a snow that does not chill, ushering in a winter of transformation.









Friday, September 12, 2014

Again and again in my thoughts I would catch myself wandering alone on a path winding through a wood. Branches hung over the path on both sides. The way forward was always in the dark. My hands would reach forward to feel in front of me in the blackness, and then I would take a step. Then another step, and yet another.

The murky flavor of this forest was tinged with despair, and yet I continued stubbornly to wander through this wilderness for many years. Somewhere in the distance, a firefly was dancing, I promised myself. I reached back into the past for the memory of faint voices of encouragement; then I would move on with a sigh.

When I was embraced, it was only by a dark angel, who reflected the dusky indigo depths of my own gloom. My dream-darlings, I turned my back on you and stubbornly marched ahead. I memorized a script of suffering, and wore it out in repetitive recitations. Often, I sank into an oblivion where exhaustion was my most constant companion.

There were a few hints, like the time I remembered a dream from early childhood: sunlight on a grassy knoll, and the certainty that roses were blossoming there.


But for the most part, such has been the way of this life. A silence verging on muteness. A series of impossible, tenebrous longings. The preference to remain in obscurity, behind the trees.

Sunday, September 07, 2014

when trees as gilded as bees

Above the 61st parallel, the colors of Autumn mark our parting with the bees, and the last days of real warmth. I had begun to transl...

popular on this site