11.03.08
Pseudo-Poem.
The sun sets.
Pinks, blues, and greens litter the sky.
There is a fish tapping on my window.
10.30.08
Occoquan.
The winds die down as you step outside.
The sky should be gray, but the clouds are bitter orange/burnt umber/something smoky like paprika.
It is strangely warm. (It was cold on the ride down, cold enough for your jacket – jewel-toned like a hummingbird – but now outside on an empty street with no real lights to speak of, it is oppressive, so you slip it off.)
You only catch glimpses of the river from here; there are other buildings – houses, a few, and shops – standing in your way. Watching like moai.
Surprisingly, you can’t see the bridge.
There are people nearby, people outside with you, but the road is cold (except strangely not for you) and dark (save for that eldritch glow of mundane houselights) and empty.
And the paprika sky still drags your eyes out towards the other shore.
And down the other side of the street, a streetlight that you could have sworn wasn’t there before is on, brilliant and bright, the clearest thing around -
- And as you stare at it, mesmerized like a rodent before a snake, the wind whips down the street like a long, long sigh,
and you see the head, resting not sixty feet up the road, with its open mouth swallowing the street and its streetlight-bright eye, and its long back curving away in forested hills across the river.
10.23.08
Faith.
It is never a bad thing to trust.
If there is something in the world worth being a martyr for, it’s that.
If you have to die, die because you hoped, die because you loved, die because you had faith.
Justice II.
There is no justice without mercy.
When in doubt, err on the side of mercy.
10.17.08
Thursday Morning, On My Walk.
Thursday morning, on my walk,
I passed two trees, and between them
was fog,
frosting the land behind it
as if it were ice.
A red sun sat in a branch.
Below that, framed perfectly,
a flaming bush.
Then I walked too far,
and it was gone.
10.16.08
Wash The Dirt From Your Hands.
What is more sacred than dirt? Nothing.
We stir it with our passing, and mark it with our footsteps, and it holds the evidence of our existence within itself.
It clings to us, reminding us of where we’ve been, keeping us rooted firmly in our past.
It is the very substance of life. For out of dirt we were made, and to dirt we shall return.
No, nothing is more sacred than dirt, so remember to wash your hands.
10.10.08
First Date.
“Hello,” she said.
He jerked around, a little startled. “Oh. Hello. I didn’t know there were any other people here.”
She smiled a little. “Well, I am here now.” She looked him up and down, smiling.
Somewhat self-consciously, he brushed the dirt off his knees. “What?” he asked, noticing her smile.
“You are very handsome,” she said, smiling wider at his blush. “What are you doing?” The curiosity in her voice was genuine.
He jumped at the opportunity to change the subject. “I am planting a tree,” he said. “There are some of these on the other side of the garden, but none here; I thought one or two over this way might be nice.”
“I agree,” she said. “I found these seeds over that way,” she held out some new seeds he’d not seen yet, “and thought they might go well here, also.”
He touched the seeds in her hand, shyly looking at other parts of her entirely.
She caught his eye and his hand, and laughed.
He grinned back, and they forgot about the seeds for a while.
And later when things got bad and they had to leave their garden and he started blaming her for all their misfortune as if he’d had no free will of his own, Eve would remember that day, and those seeds, and wonder what could’ve grown if she’d sown them.
Nonet.
Tweet! Tweet! Look – There is a little bird.
Flowers are shaking off the dew.
A squirrel scurries by us.
The sun breaks the darkness.
This is the morning
That we have made;
Rejoice, you,
and be
glad!
—–
