There are times when I want to burn images into my eyes. I want to save them in a secret golden box of visual memories for a time when I am perhaps very old, or perhaps very sick or perhaps very sad and blind to the beauty that remains constant in the composition of leaves and skies and foggy mountain horizons.
hiding there beneath the leaves,
your crunch from under my boot
startles me out of my somulent stroll
abandoned hallways of the past
leading to corridors of disappointments,
resentments and lost dreams–
save an optimistic seat for
someday and tomorrow
turning, bending and twisting in search of the sun’s golden rays–
I take a lesson from the sunflower and turn toward the waning light
red rose of November,
linger,
stay awhile,
help me ease into the approaching winter wind
with no hard edges
or defined borders–
my mind reaches for the space
between memory and intuition
a lifetime of tender rain,
a moment of unintentioned pain,
a second lost, a severed vein,
a crimson stain, blamed
on long days and nights and forever promises
unleashed and untamed
against soft grey skies
dry seed pods
stretch with brittle beauty–
bending and yearning
with open abandon
1. stable ground
2. cracking
3. changing texture
4. baseline shift
5. unstable level
6. ascension or descension
7. stable ground
The smell transfixes me.
I close my eyes and drink.
spanishwoods 