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I hold the hour. A voice. 'I'm here and the birch-wands toss,… - fingersweep [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
fingersweep

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[May. 23rd, 2016|10:21 pm]
fingersweep
I hold the hour.

A voice.

'I'm here and the birch-wands toss, they twang in the shore wind, and I can hear the waves crash and see them in crosslight. I can remember more.'

The wind is good spices, the light is honey after the sun's faded.

'It's the western sea.'

Where the ocean ends it's a living thing.

'Listen with me, here the wind drinks the sea in sweeping draughts, and bellows it back in blue blossoming sparks, blue of the heart's blood, blue of the flame at its radiance, and in the lulls of the surf take speech and be solaced.'

I see a cave with double mouths.

'Don't enter, don't.'

Entering I see a cup, masterwork of a rude craftsman.

'Leave it, leave it.'

Where is he?

'Over the cave's top, gathering berries and salves.'

Is it so bad?

'I'd ask him but the day's fading. The light's tendril as daylight dims, and green gathers like moss around the corners of the eyes, in the dark stand of pines past the birches warped by the wind. The dark is overgrown, the world without light is riotous and lush, for a moment it seems...'

Sparks spark.

'...as if everything could be ignited and through the silence across the verge, where the trees sway and the light sleeps in the dark's bed, there is our home. But this I don't know or can't believe.'

Your voice to the world is your voice alone. Can you speak to him, the one in pain, the one speechless except in pain? Would he listen, could he be persuaded?

'When I was young I was strong. Now that I'm old I'm weak.'

So speak.

'The bees have combed my heart and brought it to order: they cling there in the salt spume to the vine. It's life they love, and it's life for them because it's life for me. It's not seven years I've waited by this shore but my life long and the days cling to my heart like bees to the vine: the rosemarine is bitter but it blooms. The sea murmurs. Only where the sea ends does it look to go on.'

Oh, the broken waves, the rocks on the broken land.

'Drift. The heart has its quarters like the sky, it gathers days in clouds before and those that would have passed tomorrow or a week later, those formed prematurely that would have been rich or lovely if timed, and draws them to itself in remembrance and mourning and then looms in rain. In silence the rain condenses and the sky blackens (oh, the sparks, and oh, the ignition, and the silence in the warm dark as the seed shoots skyward across the gap and the gambling winds): and does it fall in joy or in bitterness, this plenty and fullness of wind like that sounding out of the double caves on the fiery islands the old god in the story steered and piloted -- or does it instead sink and then rock in the lull of its own weight and size, and then scatter again in sunlight, in spray.'

The waves, the bees on the cave-vine, bowing under the weight, sparks in the firelight, mirrors of the surf.

Let go. I'm here because that's where you are and we talk, welcome each other with questions. The yard is dim and the wind dies down in the street, the hoofbeats are soft and the sound of them's just passed the end of the road. The roses hang in clusters from the low eaves, and the lilacs and the azaleas are in their luster, their final color, the one ready for picking and for event (as the keeper of bees once that drifting sea-flower in the ocean, the one that knows only of unbeginnings and will tell you, will speak to you always if you seize, if you shatter, if you can unend, if you can return it twicegrown). And this is joyousness in obscurement, in warm retirement of sense. To speak and be spoken to, and then rest.
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