the retreat…

Perhaps it is odd to speak first of this, after, but that’s what comes and why I came here, forest-found, so that I can let be the before.

I wake to tree sighs. The firs tell dawn stories two hundred years high above me, in whispers. I hear them and remember how to wonder.

Sunrise stretches feathered fingers up, curious to touch. Chill mists lie like soft down blankets on the earth till the light ripens, ebbing and falling in seconds’ seasons.

I watch, sit, be. There is nothing else.

The silence is rich is breezes, swaying sky tops, honey-homing buzzes. Complex but quiet it soothes me, smooths out the edges without voices or words.

Loose leaves dance down unhurried. Ten thousand separate but synchronized, in slow drifting spirals, god-gifted for the waiting earth.

I lie down, moss soft, and see significance in all that is small – the sheen of spider spin, disordered symmetries in clover cress. A tiny bug teeters on a grass blade then stabilizes, stands strong, and climbs on up determined. I wonder if it knows where it’s going, but see the simple logic of on and up. Sometimes that’s all we’ve got.

A caterpillar crawls, fat bite of purple. Anxious ants seem lost, hesitant before the baffling choice of grades of green. Rainbow wings flutter myriad – miracles crushed in a moment . My seeing is a holocaust.

It is painful to see what I trample unseen, unknown, at each step, so I roll over, look away. Blue sky stretches endless empty. Somewhere it blackens star baths, aeons, universes, angling into infinity until I am a nothing. I don’t see that, look up but don’t understand that. I settle for bright beauty and the question.

Here I am. Here between worlds. One at my back and one stretched out empty in front, both known unknown. Right now, that’s just fine.

Perhaps I’ll learn to fly…

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3 Responses to the retreat…

  1. I think the phrase ‘don’t tell the reader, show the reader’ is why your writing is so rich … Thank you for sharing …

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