it follows, but perhaps it leads— a season beneath a season,
the after-summer and before fall tumbles into darkness.
Now shadows dance in spotlights, and green branches are tipped with gold,
gardens are filled with flowers that know the secrets of bees–
wisely they shake heads dyed indigo, gold, and scarlet—it is a bird Eden, a squirrel pantry–
and if the river asks, you breath in its blue mystery,
taste its layers, as it unfolds time like a peony, seed to dust again and again.
My poem from the Oracle, who knows everything. She knows how beautiful September is right now in my part of the world. She also must know that yesterday I heard from my cousins that their mother, my aunt (my mother’s sister-in-law) had died the night before. It made me think about how my mom had died in April when the sky was also bright blue, and the spring flowers were blooming. So, this is not exactly a tribute to my aunt—but in her memory, a reflection of sorts on life and death and beauty.
In the bird world, in songs not his own, in squirrel harmonies and the deep-breathed rhythm of trees, the long exhale of winter in dusk’s violet
he thinks how love climbs like vines– how easily they wither but drop seeds to sleep under the rustle of rust-rotted leaf blankets
as seasons pass beneath gnarled roots fingers pointing down–
and now he above in aged-rasped voice cries, our earth, our light, how blue!
Some of you will recognize that this is a revision of my poem from the Oracle, which you can read here. I revised it to make it more imagist for TopTweetTuesday and shared it there. I’m sharing it now with dVerse Open Link Night.
urging you onwards, time moving in swift, smooth beats, your skin sun-sweat soaked and sea chilled,
aches recalled in dawn’s rust light, along with the “why” you asked her,
and her enigmatic reply— mad drunks and dreams.
This one came right away in one try from the Oracle, using mostly her words. I think it’s a companion poem to the story she gave Jane recently. I don’t remember this Redon painting. I suppose the Oracle led me to it, too.
after the storms, moon-shadows danced to fiddle tunes and dreams swirled in the air, dressing the forests in purple light, the gowns made of love, lust, hope, and fear.
These, the pictures that dangle beyond reach in an endless gallery– though I will recall some, if I can, before they vanish in the apricot sky, in the susurration of the river, and the cries of ospreys carrying them far into the clouds.
This seems like something I’d share in my Monday Morning Musings, but one doesn’t argue with the Oracle.
After the horrible heat and humidity, we finally got some rain—not enough—but we had a beautiful day yesterday and beautiful weather that will last through the weekend. And there was a full moon. Last night, I had some interesting dreams. The Oracle knows everything.