Sunday, November 20, 2011
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain. – Mary Frye
November curdled into being soon after tripping over October, only to lose her autumnal identity to December’s bully impatience given to squalls of snow talcum. One month clumsily falls and drifts into another and I’m lost in between seasons of warring transgression. These turbulent months are threaded heavy by limbs of holiday cheer or digress - whichever tempura fits. I’m left adrift among words weather weary in nature and floundering in spiritual ether.
In a slow procession the nearby woodland disappeared under bulldozers and backhoes and all I can envisage are the years it takes for a single tree to root and thicken with bark. The view became a barren mud lake, missing her children’s limbs which used to vie for skyline. Children - yes, for all that grows is a sentient life in it’s own right; the earth a mother whose womb they shared. The pup’s chest rumbles in a whine beside me in spiritual discourse which passes from dog to woman – our shared pain for what was once a forest. She looks up at me searching for reasoning I don’t have and I apologize for the ilk of human cudgel.
And I find the backhoe of my imagination can’t seem to dig deep enough for words. Leaving me to wonder, has desire mined my intelligence to the point, I'm left with nothing more than a barren slate - a muddy expanse of word sludge? Did I cultivate the depths and forget my morality and emotional sentience? Words are structured like tree limbs entwined into a forest of sentences and paragraphs like woodland husbandry. The writer in me must learn to plow gently and weave between the soil of soul and prose, without up heaving the basic foundation of natural nuance and wonderment.
In the forest of my imagination words dance like fey crossing the void into reality and I write a never ending tree line of wordage against humanities angst. So if November sank her hooks deep in a ballast of inspiration; will December herald what words convey in secret places of the heart?
*Click on Link for Mary Frye's poem "Do Not Stand at my Grave And Weep"
Picture found here.