Lilac Wine :: a warzone towards haiku

December 25, 2013


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 10:00 pm

Mute hands, sensitized by the rarity of touch. Palms turned down they complete a smitten circuit to earth ground, frosted and strewn with redwood needles. Orion arcs overhead. This place is a comic example of the persistence of memory. In my heart it was a fireplace, cavernous as focus turns things, and light and shadows playing in pools of bone. In my heart it was a staircase to the snow, a lone house in the wild woods, some narrow road to pagan peace.

In reality, like Dali’s clocks un-melted, it was a cabin with rooms of standard size among a row of like buildings. There was a strip of parking. The fireplace was smaller. Memory has its own poetic honesty.

Mute hands, numb with midwinter cold. Once I wrote of being a conduit. Everything flows over me and through me, into the ground, yet is recreated continually. I suppose then I am a source, not merely wires. Here in the forest I join a complete circuit; cold, crying, calling for an ancestral spirit.

He comes and walks me back inside.

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