"What more could I ask of the dark than just to be the dark itself?" ~ Sean Thomas Dougherty As days shift and nights deepen, what has not fruited has begun to rock itself to sleep. The leaves of our favorite trees are shriveling. Speckled with brown, now they are leathering. We cut back the barren vines; we deadhead the roses and hydrangeas. I used to know someone who liked to say that the goal of each day was to climb into bed and sleep the sleep of the just— Even thenI wanted to know: the just what? I mean, doesn't the wind leave ripples in its wake though the trees are naked, though the only lights on water are whatever stars it manages to catch in its nets? When you are sleeping, I reach across the sheet as if toward a light that scaled the walls, that leaped upstream like a fish remembering origins. Now and then a flash of green appears on the horizon, though we've been told there isn't anything there but light, refracted.
No comments:
Post a Comment