That big blue beautiful sky cannot contain the joy that weaves in and out and through my day It flits through the world a butterfly with technicolor wings to touch those who have touched me to light the way to fill the dark to change just one thing for one person in vast open spaces it is lost for it hold truest to its form in the quiet dark of fear and loneliness. That place where it is needed most the place of spiders and clowns of monsters and evil My joyful butterfly flits and floats and does not quit. Does not land and does not stop, for in the dark places of deep sadness it is needed and it is searched for and it is the bringer of hope
Awaking I feel something is different. I shrug it off and begin preparing for the day. I take care of all my mundane tasks, laundry, dishes, shower, getting dressed. I wonder what I should do. I still feel bogged down although my work inside is done for now. I open the front door; the world looks different. I am confused but excited. There is nothing but a vast expanse of the plushest green lawn and bluest sky in front of me. I hear birds singing that left this wasteland long ago. New life has been breathed into the wold. A new life has begun.
The wind will blow across it forever, at least as long as my forever. Three miles to the gravel road, then another couple to where the paving begins, a faulty trace pocked and pitted, the verges tassels of weed, grey in August, but by the first snow they’ll be pretty again. No heat in the bunk house until November. Half the rails in the corrals have fallen. The last kid left in 1968. Windows rattle in the dry wood frames. The generator comes on at five. Coffee at twenty after. You know there are neighbors only by the occasional distance gun shot. You tell if it’s the Taylor’s or the Jewett’s, by the time between the report and the echo.
It wasn't easy to watch the gray pearl disappear in grandmother's mouth, cousins who were born in the year of the rat had to place mint on the roof of their tongue and look east.
Her daughters wore white, any trace of sin had to be suspended in air, her sons wore white too, but for a different reason. Their eyes had to be blindfolded. Black cotton dipped in ginger and honey. If "Ama" had any trouble reaching the last bright lights, her sons would be to blame.
Before the crematory doors shut, the youngest grandson, born in the year of the bull had to scream the loudest if he is asked. "Get out Ama! It's time to get out! Leave your body!"
He wasn't told of what would happen next. His screams, the vast open space growing inside his throat, created the field Ama can run to. He understood that one day it will rain pearls and it is a sign of thanks.
5 comments:
That big blue beautiful sky
cannot contain the joy that weaves in and out
and through my day
It flits through the world
a butterfly with technicolor wings
to touch those who have touched me
to light the way to fill the dark
to change just one thing for one person
in vast open spaces it is lost for it
hold truest to its form in the quiet dark of fear and loneliness.
That place where it is needed most
the place of spiders and clowns
of monsters and evil
My joyful butterfly flits and floats
and does not quit.
Does not land and does not stop,
for in the dark places of deep sadness
it is needed and it is searched for
and it is the bringer of hope
Awaking I feel something is different. I shrug it off and begin preparing for the day. I take care of all my mundane tasks, laundry, dishes, shower, getting dressed. I wonder what I should do. I still feel bogged down although my work inside is done for now. I open the front door; the world looks different. I am confused but excited. There is nothing but a vast expanse of the plushest green lawn and bluest sky in front of me. I hear birds singing that left this wasteland long ago. New life has been breathed into the wold. A new life has begun.
Carrizo Plain
The wind will blow across it forever, at least as long as my forever.
Three miles to the gravel road, then another couple to where
the paving begins, a faulty trace pocked and pitted,
the verges tassels of weed, grey in August,
but by the first snow they’ll be pretty again.
No heat in the bunk house until November.
Half the rails in the corrals have fallen.
The last kid left in 1968. Windows rattle in the dry wood frames.
The generator comes on at five. Coffee at twenty after.
You know there are neighbors only
by the occasional distance gun shot.
You tell if it’s the Taylor’s or the Jewett’s,
by the time between the report and the echo.
I feel incapacitated in vast, open spaces. I fear I may lose myself forever and that no one will find me.
Vast Open Spaces
---
It wasn't easy to watch the gray pearl disappear in grandmother's mouth, cousins who were born in the year of the rat had to place mint on the roof of their tongue and look east.
Her daughters wore white, any trace of sin had to be suspended in air,
her sons wore white too, but for a different reason. Their eyes had to be
blindfolded. Black cotton dipped in ginger and honey. If "Ama" had any trouble reaching the last bright lights, her sons would be to blame.
Before the crematory doors shut, the youngest grandson, born in the year of the bull had to scream the loudest if he is asked. "Get out Ama! It's time to get out! Leave your body!"
He wasn't told of what would happen next. His screams, the vast open space growing inside his throat, created the field Ama can run to. He understood that one day it will rain pearls and it is a sign of thanks.
[DRAFT]
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