Day: 13 I DON’T KNOW WHAT THIS IS It’s a hole, it’s a dread, it’s a gate, it’s a door, it’s a garden. It’s a calender of labyrinths on the moon with my fingerprints on it. It’s nothing, it’s everything, it’s oblivion. The long forever with a tide that keeps going out like the red wavelengths of the veils and the death shrouds that hang like the spider webs, mandalas, and dream catchers in the windows of the nets of wonder and allurement so the eyes in its blood can mark the night with stars as if the waters of life were forging swords in the moonlight. It’s a threshold we put there to step across into the vast night ahead of us like a firewalk with ourselves among the wild irises when the obsidian water snakes are hunting the eggs of the frogs among the wild irises. Everybody’s got a window in their heart with a name on it. Everybody’s got a tree they sit under with a god that intrigues them with its silence, its solitude, its chaos. An abyss that sprouts quail in the burning underbrush. A conflagration of daylilies started by the pilgrims lost in the valleys of the rootfires of the holy ghosts of the cedars and the birch trees, worshipping smoke that reeks of oak and mistletoe. Lonely nightbirds who’ve given up waiting for an answer to their prayers and just sing in the ear of the silence that’s unattainable with longing made fair by the intangible moonrise. A bubble, a lightning bolt, a firefly, a hungry ghost, the mist hanging on a blade of stargrass like the pearl of a sacred syllable that spoke like water of darkness and light, equally alike, without staining the mind with a choice it didn’t have to make for itself to stay outside and keep a firepit it was in love with company for the night as the wind and the dawn appointed windfalls to the stars like shepherd moons and planets they gathered like a rosary of prayer beads that had forgotten what they’d ask for in the presence of a magnificence that already knew them. La, la, the lives one sing in lonely echoes of the waterbirds and hills across a gulf of dread as empty as the urns of the dead that were scattered across the rootfires of the stars and the ashes of the roses that adored them. Never let it be said the wind didn’t know the weight of our wings, or the sun didn’t cradle our faces in the hands of the light and look upon us like a child that had done something right for a change of heart toward the darkness that surrounds us like a window with a name on it blithely perishing into its own blindness like a candle in the morning light of a chimney where the birds are singing brightly to the angels that awoke them from the dreams of the locust tree that slowly died on the nightwatch of the moon that softly cried in the shadows of providence foregone with time in a tide of bells and watersheds and housewells that closed their eyes like the brine of a memory that hurt because it was so beautiful it was wise in the ways of the remote like a secret it kept to itself among the leaves and the unsigned loveletters of an event so spectacular that silence put a finger to the lips of solitude and said speak no more of it as the words descend like snow through the lamp posts of what was not disclosed. PATRICK WHITE
Posted on: Mon, 11 Nov 2013 16:56:34 +0000
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