Sunday, May 11, 2014

The Folds of an Imagined Rose

Bear scat curled in the shape of question marks, littering the trail, suggesting west. The moose track - three days old now - survived yesterday's rain, fastening now to the old alphabets. Blue Jays, forsythia, shotgun shells, quartz points and one idea after another, somewhat like the folds of an imagined rose.

We live at the shoulder, understood now as the listing median between thought and pulse. Absent bluets - yet surrounded by them everywhere - I at last understand the meaning of bereft. As a very little boy I wanted to swallow fireflies both to contain their mysterious light but also to protect them from the bats my father said mercilessly hunted them.

Thought after thought, like the half tones of bells passing over the village into the hills and beyond to where. Swallows - the night blue white-bellied fliers - now visit regularly, exacerbating my experience of flightlessness. A daffodil where skunk cabbage might have done as well.

Who lingers then in the vale of L sounds? Teachers offer direction but not mandates or else they aren't teachers but particularly dangerous learners. Caveat emptor indeed child.

Shreds of birch bark float through the forest and I search them all, hoping against hope to discover at last her name. People are always offering me grills, misunderstanding the value of fire, and also of going without. Tortilla pizzas for breakfast with eggs, olives and the last of last summer's peppers.

Blue jays scraw as I enter the forest and crows drift from their piney nests, carrying the warning forward. Yet the turtle is blessed and never worries the carapace. Faith assembles unpainted barns and offers another poem.

Hold onto it a little longer until you find the walker who can share the far miles, okay? Distance a balm, a dog I am calling home.

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