Walking at Dawn in October
As the sun crept quietly up,
I felt inspired by a recent taste and a recent perfume.
Beyond early mind-strata where nature can be dull as ditch water,
memories and emotions coalesce as to provide a semi-gloss of geological magic.
Here one’s veins are filled with a certain streak of light or a certain pebble.
And here I felt famous among the ducks – A prince happy as the grass was green.
While walking I learned fierce tears as I sang and shattered the sun in flight.
Suddenly the light wasn’t so simple,
And my heart grew long as the shadow of undying breath.
I walked in the castle of stinging white apple blossoms,
And was honored all my days by the ripple of water,
As a heron dove through winged trees into the semantics of the pond.
The waking town was but a paradigm of ecological usurpation, as fluid as liberty in this most natural elemental state, and suddenly I longed for a gate to walk through -
To remember this morning like that of a long dead child who never stopped singing.
Every blade of grass whispering truth and the still water condensed into a single substance for the marvel of a memory,
As tall as a legend and as brown as the owl.
Stillbirds in singingwater piercing my eyes,
As the dawn broke beyond my mind and the glowworms of the moon.
I cared nothing for the mutiny of the night, and wished
My legs would take me to many lamb-white days greeted by dark eyes at dawn,
As angelic as the stretching of limbs and as easy as the first yawn.
How behaving like the wind could be less solemn than the birch swinging into quiet window panes, newly ornamented with a face, a hand and toast.
I hoped to not disturb the universe and the politics of coffee spoons measuring the morning into bottomless mugs of life through a French roast.
As simple as a cucumber was my imagination while walking back,
Not owing to any talk of you or me, but prodigious beckoning of tea and cake.
The morning felt like marmalade smiles, perhaps she’d spread it on toast, and
Tasted the dawn in another direction while wiping her mouth roguish as a rake.
There will be time, time for revisions, time for hope, and time to meet a face,
But that’s for another day when traveling free-spirited up the ridge of a sea-lined coast.
And would it be worth it, and would it be worthwhile, I thought, to go someplace else,
To satisfy mad poetics of wild farming, sweat dripping from yellow hills to cheeks.
And would it be worthwhile, and would it be worth it, I thought, to go back?
I felt inspired by a recent taste and a recent perfume.
Beyond early mind-strata where nature can be dull as ditch water,
memories and emotions coalesce as to provide a semi-gloss of geological magic.
Here one’s veins are filled with a certain streak of light or a certain pebble.
And here I felt famous among the ducks – A prince happy as the grass was green.
While walking I learned fierce tears as I sang and shattered the sun in flight.
Suddenly the light wasn’t so simple,
And my heart grew long as the shadow of undying breath.
I walked in the castle of stinging white apple blossoms,
And was honored all my days by the ripple of water,
As a heron dove through winged trees into the semantics of the pond.
The waking town was but a paradigm of ecological usurpation, as fluid as liberty in this most natural elemental state, and suddenly I longed for a gate to walk through -
To remember this morning like that of a long dead child who never stopped singing.
Every blade of grass whispering truth and the still water condensed into a single substance for the marvel of a memory,
As tall as a legend and as brown as the owl.
Stillbirds in singingwater piercing my eyes,
As the dawn broke beyond my mind and the glowworms of the moon.
I cared nothing for the mutiny of the night, and wished
My legs would take me to many lamb-white days greeted by dark eyes at dawn,
As angelic as the stretching of limbs and as easy as the first yawn.
How behaving like the wind could be less solemn than the birch swinging into quiet window panes, newly ornamented with a face, a hand and toast.
I hoped to not disturb the universe and the politics of coffee spoons measuring the morning into bottomless mugs of life through a French roast.
As simple as a cucumber was my imagination while walking back,
Not owing to any talk of you or me, but prodigious beckoning of tea and cake.
The morning felt like marmalade smiles, perhaps she’d spread it on toast, and
Tasted the dawn in another direction while wiping her mouth roguish as a rake.
There will be time, time for revisions, time for hope, and time to meet a face,
But that’s for another day when traveling free-spirited up the ridge of a sea-lined coast.
And would it be worth it, and would it be worthwhile, I thought, to go someplace else,
To satisfy mad poetics of wild farming, sweat dripping from yellow hills to cheeks.
And would it be worthwhile, and would it be worth it, I thought, to go back?
posted by ... at 12:30 PM
11 Comments:
cucumbers are simple? why? all those little seeds ... textures, flavours ... :D
lovely words though ...
it worked- the Eliotesque rhythm, the words painting a more lucid picture than the sun on the day perhaps- yes, the moon has a competitor I'd say :)
this was special.
prerona - Tasting those ubiquitious, thick-skinned cucumbers is like little Jack giving Jill a smooch.
Does that make sense? Well, I'm leaving it! :)
inkblot - Sure. Why not have both?!
Keen observation on the Eliotness. That definitely lit a spark.
waking up to a dream of an early morning and toast, and finding that you can go back to sleep. stretch against the smooth, crisp bedsheet, perhaps steal a kiss or two. enough to leave a girl wanting for more.
great read!
bismuth - You certainly know how to make an early morning sound romantic.
But don't forget the comforter, as it gets cool in the morning. Here, anyway.
csperez - Gracias!
**silvermOOn** - I liked how you described this. The word "plump" made me smile.
And I hope the retracing didn't become tiresome. ;)
"To satisfy mad poetics of wild farming, sweat dripping from yellow hills to cheeks."
and what of which agricultural tendencies to start ticking off with fingers? to put into soil the seed, or to sow. to plow. to reap the harvest, or merely harvest. or to plunder. though that wouldn't be an agricultural tendency, would it? i like that line.
To walk and observe, be a sponge before Nature, not yearning to learn but simply inhaling life.
Cathartic, ain't it? ^_^ (I'm more of a night creature, though, so I long for beach walks at night, where only my sense of hearing is magnified. ^_^)
To remember this morning like that of a long dead child who never stopped singing.
Every blade of grass whispering truth and the still water condensed into a single substance for the marvel of a memory
Ahh, so poetic. With an emphasis on essences. Love it.
Cheers.
{illyria} - seed. soil. plow. reap. harvest. Those words make me giddy.
And the thought of plundering sounds like a ball, but I'm pretty sure it's a bad thing.
soulless - Cathartic in it's simple and complex beauty. Definitely.
I'm more of a night creature myself. The night suggests. It suggests a disquiet otherness that the day lacks. Daytime shows. But there's room to enjoy both at times.
this is you on the home straight. foot to the floor with the needle flickering ever higher.
who could resist such a line as this..."spoons measuring the morning into bottomless mugs of life"
again, you have outdone your self.
cj - Dumb time.
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