|
all things are hushed. No birds speak. No wings pass over you. There is only the earth and the
sky and a man who searches for solace in the
presence of mountain saints. Here is Ines, and then Maria and
Paula. Each woman is hallowed, while
Rafael holds sanctuary. Yet the weight of each mountain
cannot deliver tranquillity. Not today, not at this hour. Not as a thought curves around
your body like a prayer too full with
mystery. And it leaves you windswept inside a calm afternoon. Pollen the pollen flowed covering houses and staining them yellow as if the colour yellow was an optimistic sign for turning corners, for brighter futures and I was reminded of the feather pattern of a
hummingbird of its soft leopard-like spots woven into a cover of green, and with this image, I conjured up all the gleaners spilling pollen and doing their rounds, and I watched them for a while as I walked a street of miniature
suns.
--- Annie Dillard Hold your many souls like a
juggler, this is Inuit land. The chest and arms, all
Inuit-souled. Even the eyes have two souled-suns
that burn a gleam through a viewer’s head. This is the breadth of your many
engines: a hand, a moon-shaped sigh a cheekbone, rare a glimpse of finger. The turning of the body in graceful-gracelessness. You are like a horizon bending and shaping itself at will
– a balloon of escape, a lung of tree. The form of things to come.
|
