Saturday, June 1, 2013

Whispers Beautiful and Low

I write from a hard silence. A hard longing. And far beyond logistics.

Is it longing - not having - that makes one write? The tides of Her - unfolding - again and again and again? Or is it - as Machado suggested - the fear of going down?

Was it begun in love? In lust? Who is it knows the difference?

I write from the deep shadows, untouched by prayer. My shoulders bear the summer honeysuckle gratefully into eternity. Stillness reaches from beyond my solitude and hums and whispers, beautiful and low.

When the dark settles I call to Her, as soft as the wordy can manage. I sleep alone with the crickets, lit by fireflies, wrapped in a blanket that smells like horse. A last sentence a last time again.

I pause in the old fields, taken by starlight, the moon,  the fluid darkness moving between them. One with who or what? Nakedness - not the hint but the wholeness - is sacred and each shared trace heals the world.

You for whom the old ways to reach me still work - who know what moves me most - reach me now. Show me - without condition - where Her heart beats, low and beautiful, in soft susurration of oneness, where once - so briefly, so sweetly - I was home.

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