Everything breaks open. This season that emerges from a turtled winter summons every heart to place a toe into the icy rush of spring waters that river from places known only to our unsourcing of them. You may hold me against your body, feel a tireless shuddering cease in the night as the warmth of another river courses through what kept you so cold for so long beneath far too many failed moons.
This is the season that says, Yes. The cow fattens in the vintage of her starry cellar; seedlings scour the scattered fields for a place to rise up in the bosom of a burgeoning sun; each drop of rain seeks her thousand summoned sisters as the dance of skirtless skies drop veils along the summering path.
Quail quarry their love in pairs as the one stands vigil for the other, his cocked eye scanning hawkless regions where blue nearly touches green in the orbital palette that circles yellow as we near summer fire.
I want this. To stand vigil and be stood for, to round the corners of a season too brief to be fully embraced, but try, try anyway. I want to want what I dare not want for the beauty of having it is to diminish what it is. Thus is my own nature at odds with the things of nature and it is perfect that it be so. I want it no other way. Spring is here and here will it blossom within and without for it is sufficient unto itself.
Let me know this by the press of your breath against my chest, the slip of two tongues savoring what it took the cosmos so long to achieve in being able to taste itself, behold itself, rise up in the steady state of this elusive, star-tattered bloom.
At first I am happy to find the small speckled egg, quail and unbroken, alone on the ground, then feel the small quill of sorrow for the unformed nestling that will never hatch because its time has eclipsed in the fragility of such living things subjected to the ruthless principles of indeterminate cause and effect.
To have the morning to consider such a thing is a luxury beyond reach of lavishly marbled banks, elusive as what cannot be found in the implausible itinerary of even the most clever hotel concierge.
A butterfly’s torn wing; a lizard’s dropped tail still writhing like dockbait before the shy worm’s abode settled in the mold-coddled architecture of a split- level acorn. In the near distance comes the call that will never be answered: Wa-see-choo! Wa-see-choo! the tasseled sentry alarming the egg-laden bevy scattering like grass seed for the shadowed thicket.
Sparrows, too, sow their impending sorrows, common as found materials that bind and weave us into nestmates, the crashing sky caressing, the patient ground littered with delicate dispatches of what passed there, in feather, by bone, surrendered structures better suited for purposes as befitting the brief notice of poets who gaze out windows in search of what reveals when such blinds are unshelled.
We name the extra ones, chiding: John, scootch over here—you’re giving me too much room, then praising: You feel particularly good this morning, Mike.
Another half hour in bed delays the drear of yet another morning rising alone to made coffee for no one but ourselves. The singleness of the sipping becomes as apparent as a pair of slippers we don’t bother with anymore. You tell me of your extras and I confess to having four, two more than necessary. Or not.
Our dolls no longer require heads, or arms and legs to gently entangle with, scentless as sterilized rubber and treated plastic, save the down fill of this manufactured loneliness.
Mine have no names as I scarcely bother any more, yet I whisper lover things deep in the night and they don’t seem to mind the absence.
How many of us do this, we wonder, finding a kind of comfort no matter what the number so as to feel part of a larger aloneness than our own.
Three years after returning home to California, I threw two out replacing them with new ones. They held all the sorrows of Oregon in them.One should never keepsuch mournful bedfellows as pillowsas they tend to siphon off our few remaining dreams.
Hold me, William, lie to me again in that eloquent silence that sings how deeply you love me more than sleep, before I make up the bed and smother you in the ache of making it.
wisdom is worth all we lose to attain it. ~aucassin verdé
i wonder if the artist ever lives his life-—he is so busy recreating it. only as i write do i realize myself. i don't know what that does to life. ~anne sexton
you must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. in my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: the stupid and the envious. the stupid will like you in five years time. the envious, never.~john wilmot, 2nd earl of rochester
art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes. ~kahlil gibran
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. art is knowing which ones to keep. ~scott adams
those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either. ~golda meir
i said to my soul, be still,
and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope
for the wrong thing.
wait without love,
for love would be love
of the wrong thing.
there is yet faith;
but the faith and the love
and the hope are all
in the waiting.
wait without thought,
for you are not ready for thought.
so the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing.