Archive
09/25/11 - (1)
Clinging to Sunday
Last night, I orchestrated my 8 a.m. awakening by the lake, To facilitate the swift dissipation, disposition, Of sleep's dream-detritus, praying I'd be born free, this morning.
But I seem, still, to be willfully clinging to oneiric vestiges Beguiling me back from reality's precipice, Where I'll necessarily have to acknowledge that this Sunday,
This sun-stitched, trapunto-quilted sky, Stuffed with low-scudding wisps of fluff Inviting my eyes to touch them, squeeze them, with my fingertips . . .
That this peaceful Sunday, into whose quiescence I've arisen, Is the final full day of this most recent visit of mine To the only place my soul knows it can go
To commune with pine trees, Canada geese, chipmunks, Wind lifting its birds' wings to its singing lips, Mosses, lichens, and mushrooms growing on bark, duff, nothing,
Dialogue with a lake containing all Earth's ancient answers To this sandy, glacier-gouged region's mysteries, enigmas, And follow streaking meteors, to the source of the universe's voice.
Just now, my clinging is being weakened, gently, gradually, By the swelling reverberations of a church bell, Slowly telling this somnolent village that Sunday belongs to time,
Telling me that, come tomorrow, I must leave my cabin, Leave this land, where stars and trees reach beyond each other, Leave that yet incomplete part of me the seasons call "soul."
09/25/11 - (1)
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