April 26, 2011

wound witches tug at bellies in places where no bodies or faces can usually be found...

" Are you reading the Bible? ", she asked me, sounding seemingly surprised. Though later, I would only come to know this song as a birdly portance of her true notch-on-the-belt desire. Not that I was ever beyond witches. I was on a bench reading Christina Rosetti in an avenue of pines outside this grandly pastoral amphitheater in upstate New York, when she slipped through the low level fog steaming off the rich grass as if formed from the words falling silently between the ones I was reading on the pages of the book's black-taped cover and the ones filling the cracks and shadows of my own thoughts. It was only half an hour earlier that I had left the concert to explore the grounds around the theater that had called to me with their stately quiet and long regarded shadows. As I had walked, thronging into the show, they wanted me not to forget to sit and enjoy their space. They wanted me to find a place where I could hear all of it, where I could hear it all being painted in its' evenly spread chaos. Much like the rhythm of the mist in the boughs of trees on a humid Summer's eve, this dance of circumstance and intention rarely gets noticed until you're alone. ( to be continued )

2 comments:

  1. ... especially that opening stand-alone line. But your gentle internal rhyme and poetic-journal style are very engaging to me. I am immediately hooked and remain engrossed through to the end.

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