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a branch that falls lightly
dislodged by a brush of April
pine needles
broken limbs
the treasure of health
and acute disorientation
a wildflower
held in the hand
determined
from the ground up
this day
that has ever passed
receding into
it’s own shadow
Filed under: Poems, Words, jon hassell, sounds, trophallaxis | Tags: death, Dream time, flamingo, taste, earth, night, Words, trophallaxis, poetry, photo, fish
outside
there is a stone
the color of the evening sky
it disappears into the night
as the sound of rain
stretches into the future
a bird
a heron is fishing for his dinner
seeing through reflections
brighter than he is
for that sustaining pulse
the heartbeat
that feeds the stomach
the surgeon of the night sky
restores dead things
with the power of sound
It is sometimes useful to explore the wreakage of a former life. At first, as if cast adrift by our own inclinations, born out of whatever situation we tend to find ourselves in. A prevailing wind may easily send us off course for years. We may circumnavigate until reaching the point of beginning, and realizing our mistake, after getting our bearings, set off again in what now seems to be the right direction. As the world turns, the sun moves through the galaxy, the galaxy through the universe, and on, and on.
But I was just walking. Small bits of land taken in by the space between my feet. To feel the slightest breeze on my skin and be reminded of movement. Somewhat autonomous. And if I ended up somewhere, all the better.
I don’t believe that it rains in Spain, but then again, I’ve never been. They grow some great oranges, must get some rain, otherwise how so? Hermetically controlled greenhouses? How disillusioning that would be.
