˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. ࿐࿔
. ˚ * ✦ . . ✦ ˚ ˚ .˚ ✦ . . ˚ .
i’m standing in the countryside, watching a zephyr of mist swallow up the undulating hills and mountains into a great big ocean of stratosphere. tufts of half-baked paintstrokes lazily frame the walls in the small house nested within; the light bulbs, their eyes wide open, anxiously buzz, waiting to be used.
in the late afternoon, the morning dew still clings to the lines of dancing fences, perched in a false recess in the grass. each pearl of liquid slinks and melts back into the ground—as above, so below. the wind shakily breathes on my face, its breath crisp and new. september is starting in 8 hours. the world, with a blush on its face, reminds me that those pirouetting weeds and dandelion daughters are looking up at the hiding sun with childlike wonder. “come back,” they cry out, “all i want is to see you again.”
the one day i search for the stars, there are none in the sky, just the long beard of a tired god beckoning me to feel wet grass snake my ankles and to shine a weak flashlight into the navel of the vast night sky. there is no telescope, no real camera, just a steel shack dotted with unused wheelbarrows and camping chairs.
my dad, a soft silhouette of gray hairs and utility jackets, plays classical music from his phone. the memories of a violin echo through the vast nothingness of this new world, this new home, this new life. though temporary, it takes me in its arms and cradles me like i am its new son. the ground swallows me as readily as the seaside beckoned me years ago.
in the distance, a perching mimic of an emu (or gazelle) is carefully whittled out of a winding array of tree branches and fallen winter leaves. it acts as a Rorschach test; my brothers giggle that it is actually an alien hand, and a litany of animal names harmonize with the mp3 of instruments far away. the tree and its outstretched hand is no animal, no alien, but a god who personally visits me, winks, and sends me the chuckle of a shooting star up above.
the entire solar system is fast asleep tonight, on a great big hiatus, tucked underneath eiderdown quilts of starstuff and weighted webs of galaxies. i wink at orion’s belt, aim my mental arrows at the southern cross, and tell the moon a joke (she doesn’t respond). i tell the clouds that i forgive them, that this night is still as beautiful as i wanted it to be.
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