Somewhere, a saxophone plays.
Centered in soft song, an orange blaze blossoms, falls to red.
Sharp shadow outlines hard angles of a harder man.
Cigarette illuminates in momentary maroons:
Black,calculating eyes, flecked with hidden hope,
inset jaw, squared with endless grief,
slight scar, belying buried past.
And all is gone, in a sigh of graying smoke.
Headlights pass, busy through this rough town,
cloaked darkness swims, shifts, swirling about leaning limbs
Fabric sags, expands, twists in the aftershock wind,
alternatively describing, embellishing, and hiding the waiting wanderer.
Again, darkness descends, and quiet returns.
All, save a disquieting tap, tap, tap.
Flashes pierce, eyes shift, lines straighten, and
blued steel bursts,
burning a hole through blackened silhouette.
Then
A clunk,
A fall,
and
a stunning silence.
Red lips, sweetly smiling, turn, and exit
in the tempo of an even
tap, tap, tap.
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant --
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind --
//This is Emily Dickinson's. My favorite poem of hers.
A bell tolls in the distance. Sheeted cloud covers the brown open.
You look up, on tip toes, through a gap in the fence, to long, empty clinks. Through the spy hole, on the other side, linger empty seats, suspended eternal from gunmetal gray lines. Seats twist in the breeze.
The open plain overwhelms this set, engulfing it in it's overwhelming dinge. Alone, forlorn, forgotten, abandoned by children who on it ought play. Cracked rubber droops, dragged down by endless parading time.
Weatherworn posts lean at angles, hardly holding against the gray void.
This is a hole of a playground, in a lost city.
Who could want this?
Strikes of light illuminate valleys. Trees, bushes, fences, brought suddenly into bright relief.
Sharp, clear stencils of black outline each object.
White, exposed tree bark against dark, wet grass.
Speeding, rushing river, reflected glints of whitened galvanism.
Wet slathered house, standing against black green forest.
Tar road, swamped with cold flowing water.
Your skin goosebumps, awakened by bright majesty.
Breath quickens, fills with clear-eyed expectancy,
You shiver, out of excitement, out of cold, out of raw reality.
And another flash fills your vision. Above you. Around you.
The bolt spiders horizontal from it's height, spreading to other clouds,
flinging outward, lacing sky with quicksilver shine, accumulated volts of true and terrible stuff.
You stand, small and alone, alive, awake and aware in teeming truth.
The voice of the Lord twists the oaks
and strips the forests bare.
And in his temple all cry,
"Glory!"
Undulating.
Roar, of thunder. Echoing off cliffs, resounding from mountains.
Darkened cloud.
filled of burning light,
rage across the heavenward plain.
Each crash,
taut with tremulous power,
testing the bounds of light,
fills the valley, surging from one end to other,
inundates forest, field, and farm with shattering tremors.
Each strike followed by another, closer, brighter, clearer, bolder, hotter, fuller, faster, louder, freer, longer, truer, untainted testaments to total intensity.
Rivers grow from fragile creeks, catching rock, wood, metal in the unrelenting surging stream.
Mighty waters rise and wash through the town, draining dirt, cleaning concrete, overrunning gutter, overflowing streets, wiping away dust and grit and grime.
Rain plasters down, in thick, full sheets. You stand, below this awe inspiring shower, entirely soaked, engulfed from toe to top in complete, uncontained power. Rain forms at your shoulders, runs down your back, trickles through your jeans, and pools in your sneakers.
It saturates your hair, drips in pregnant dollops from your roots.
You float in this energy filled night, abuzz with the awesome of the natural. You find in it peaceful reassurance.
The voice of the Lord is over the waters;
the Lord thunders over the mighty waters.
Fall. When the wind picks up, the sky burns bright, and the world turns amber.
Leaves float slowly down, falling in perfect time. Clear, piercing light filters through. The aroma of autumn wafts into your nostrils, subtle scents of pine, maple, and wind.
Crisp crunches greet your feet as you walk down the sidewalk, sneakers pushing aside swirls of browned leaves, to reveal cracked concrete below.
The wind billows about you, shifting patterns of gold shadow on your face. You step onward, emerging from the sidestreet, to it's joiner, running at cross purpose, and there you see it. There it is.
The sun, casting golden bright light all down the street, illuminating all. Mailboxes gilt with golden glory, trees face in full basking warmth, curb and concrete all awash in this effervescent elegance.
Every stone slab, every grass blade, every floating leaf is adorned with the flush of fall, the flared fullness of profound perfection.
Standing with inarticulate awe, face aglow in amazing radiance, you too take part in this avenue of the awesome.
Empty of pretension, caught in wonder, uncontrolled radiance shines down on you.
This is grace. Splendor of this sort is owed to no one, and yet you have it freely. This is grace, from God above.
Warmth. Fuzzy, encompassing warmth. Welcoming, warm sheets, carefully laid, fully cocooned, enswath me. The gentle, persistent doze; Relaxed, total completion.
Slow, distant tocks separate molasses moments. I turn, my world becoming buried in feather filled darkness.
Dreams come and go, willing me to and fro, rising and falling from sleep. In the moments between, the moments where distant chimes explain the time, I realize that you are the giver of all good things, including this.
Calm. Secure. Peaceable praise.
Soft yellow shafts find my spot, and creep up the covers. The world of the living will soon intercede. But for a moment, I enjoy this flannel simplicity. Days will come when this cannot occur. I'll enjoy the clock's chime; the silent, perceptible peace.
A gift like this is rare. Celebrate it.