Untitled, 2018

-
I love to hear the sound of the wind from a sheltered place. Particularly when it travels and circulates in gusts, bending back the palms slightly; commanding a chorus of rustling fronds. To be on the other side of a window from such a night is to be in harmony with my own flesh and blood, my own flashing mind.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The City, Pt. 2

-
The city is empty but for the men who sweep the streets, sweeping and happy to sweep in the quiet, eyes cast down on pebbled pavement, wishing for always to sweep up alone. Your presence there makes them stop with contempt, eyes cast down to trim the edges of your shadow, still as statues until you pass, the echo of your heels reverberating in the dust that floats then settles to be swept. You wonder aloud why the street is so quiet, asking one of the men with brooms but he speaks to you in nonsense, eyes focused on some mirage, lips making shapes for shallow nonsense words to flourish.  This city is eerie. Makes you tally and take stock of what contents you carry, how much bread and water, oil and cheese. Is it enough, you ask yourself. Enough for what, comes the reply and it sends you back inside yourself where the hearth is wide and warm and burning well. Still, these sweeping men line the streets, sentries of a disordered realm, brooms held crossways like matted shields, hu...
Read more

After "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society"

-
If I could ask the wind to make me fly, I’d sail over clouds and sea to your tiny island, drifting down slowly to land on the hills, lying in grass before running to find you. Where would you be? The sun's in the dewdrops and you’re on the path, bucket in hand on your way to the well. Flying on wind made me pale as a pearl so I stand back to watch you where you cannot see. The jumper I knit you has bunched at the collar, needs to be washed, yet I’d lay down and die that you’ve worn it every day. How young you are, how soft your skin. In 50 years I’ll come and tell you, “How good you are, how deep your eyes,” for in aging we are better than we were, if we can love. And how I love you as you bend to clasp a rope upon a pulley, looping hook to pale as the bucket is lowered down into dark; happy bucket to gather your drink, your wash, your life. The sun comes in full and you wipe down your brow, hoisting out your sloppy bounty, gripping strong then walking again with me at your heels. ...
Read more

After I. Calvino: The City, Pt. 1

-
The City is old. Its streets, uneven and paved in stone, the main road stretching the length of the city and never breaking. Alleys snake off from it in curving detours, too narrow for two carts to pass at once. If you continue from where you began and walk the Rue de Saphir, your leather bag slung across your back, your pockets heavy with antique coins, you will come to a convergence of streets beneath the statue of the Angel Michael and the maiden who bends to gather water from a brook with a jug. The road to the right finds the Hills of Moriah. Take it on a Tuesday when the café shutters fan open along the way, the aproned proprietors standing in their doorways, wiping down their hands from butter and flour, smiling invitations, wordless grins from knowing racks of  warm and fragrant pastry and bread, and stop before the dirt path at the vignoble to buy a bottle of rouge saisonnier before trekking up the dusty, weedy, knotted mound of seasoned earth. At this convergence of st...
Read more