On the slope that leads to a shale rock drop, I once of late, raked a path to the opening, which I think is, in two seasons, dismissed as thicket. The strawberry vines had overtaken my camellias and I moved them up to the edge of the wood for the bunnies to graze on, and lately, I imagine my crimped hips edging up the lawn like a burden-berry, light in spring, deep in the fall, and wonder if in an old scape of bone, I will- if I can – I will curate the echo of youth in -at the very least, in the very least, reminiscences. Perhaps that makes an older, an elder life, worth the pain to care for it, the ache to lift it up to see the opening which I think is in two seasons, dismissed as an overgrown thicket with a slight opening up into the stair towards a parlor where once, once, once is the story of sustenance.
There is a bunny I’ve named dusk who has planted himself in the horizon of the evening eye~ he is a silent announcement that soft leas wait for sharper structures to melt into the burrows of today, softening the landscape of tomorrow. Some things cannot, even with grit, become disassociated with a softer sound.
I’d like to see a static map of the movement of a bunny in and out of the yard, under foot, dodging the pets in the evening. It would be the color of zephyr, light and cirrus, the color of hushing. And no match for the clever patience of a cat. Ours will stake out a bird for days, only fluttering his hungry jaw in a strange chitter as if he can taste feathers. It’s so wild, it makes such sense, that hunt. I can see the bunny holding his breath, frozen, then furiously darting out of sight. And how the new pet, the loud bark of a scout, his prehistoric paws crushing clover, usher them to another cove, announcing the year of the exile. But that verse was from a memory of a story of a season when the bunnies were near, and were friends each morning and evening.
Say with intellectual fortitude those childlike utterings, for anyone wise is one who also adores peace, and is thrilled to expose the folly of pride. Those bunnies want the same, and so do the kittens but their wisdom ceases with survival. Emotional intelligence in my childlike opinion, is as valuable as genius. Have you seen the lack thereof played out in decision making? I want the same. The comfort of fur superseding the claw under a dome of ice.
The contests, the contenders, the Olympics of it all, the feasts, the harmony of attraction, the prizes, self-absorption in legend, hatred, secrecy as a safeguard, viticulture – as i mentioned, the spoiled relationship of a wicked paternal thread, exile into a rich wonderland with the thrill of an immortal presence, the stories, the wine, all of the vines, the tangled thick vines, the longing, the spells women learn that protect them from the careless seed spread of men, the sanctuary of the garden, the guilt woven into the inner dialogue- this is the climbing out of the complexity of traumatic events and the calculation of the cost of what one might want and the price to have it. Saint does a great job articulating this internal reckoning. The harvest of motive underneath thought as a means of making clear the muddled ache of attempting to decipher the immortality of love as it crosses over into mortality.
Dionysus returns so tender(ized), and as has been mentioned, fun to be allowed to hear this unorthodox compassion as he details the brevity and flash of a mortal flame. that quick flame consumed into flames of the Styx (oh, wow) while the enduring flame of the gods assist in projecting immortal light. The buried light becomes fire and death. Hmmmm.
I’ve missed these lands, and am happy to be back here in observation of such delicious tales alongside gods and women.
Architect of my liberation – Daedeleus
Wind carried their giggles to me…
I was born into a misogynistic home, with the brainwashed participation of my mother who had learned subservience. There was a division even in the eating arrangement at large gatherings, where the women stayed in the kitchen to eat out of the way.
I had no ally. So in this account, I am quite ready for a movement of Ariadne and Phaedra towards liberation. The one instant of Dionysus practicing tenderness should not even be an accolade, yet when a male moves one inch towards tenderness, the world applauds when a women might have a million examples a day of giving.
vie for homeostasis
But stars congregate – reach,
afraid of the dark, forsaking space
Worlds within whirls,
radial spirals spin
Orion’s Arm stretches out a torch
to light the void
and as the heaviness of a void
a timeline fracture
rounding a curvature of never
the beak of a waking dove
mourning coo and
the archer’s doe, free.
Even stars hover in close formation reaching out with their fingered tips, afraid of dark forsaking space. Like aging mothers and going daughters.
I may be ready to try and articulate this ache of aging parents and, well, daughters leaving. I think I may be strong enough to say those things. That’s number one of a million. The first line climbed in through the window, the way my favorite things do.