Rhythms peer out over the pulse, a hawks hood of feather, tracks of impression left indebted to follow. An edifying return, warm laps of wind, thinking not of thoughts, but rather in an exchange of inference, an inflection of speaking wisdoms embodied by the contours of the foots fall. Free from learned form, to slip gently back into the shadow, to swim out over the hill. Learn to walk slow, listen deeply. Beyond the pattern of the familiar is the groundswell of a breathing world. Such a delicate noose. Poets nurture their craft, to frame the word, the sound, the delicacy of knowing a moment, as it is lifted from the earth and sacrificed to the page. To try and gift some measure as to gleam in the reader’s eye, to awaken some ancient murmur still beating in the cords of the heart. As death comes swiftly for us all, but life is forgiving of borrowed time, as time can be slowed, if we are willing to walk within its pace, to venture into its pasture and lie withs its passage. Engrained in wood are truths evident in speaking, in stone, entombed memories of a shifting perspective. As light gathers behind tall mountains, to tell us a story of our long walk. Will it reside only in the distant flocks of memory, in the grazing stones, or will it blossom in the active imagination of a child. To walk backwards, but gain a forwarding momentum. Beyond the prison walls, a world awaits to be of its company. We are social beings, that have forgotten to invite ourselves over the threshold, to be a guest in this house, to give respect and to be beheld by its revery. Honor can only be bestowed on those that would listen before attempting to speak a language that has gifted its vital ear, its broken back, its breathing breathe, so that we may walk along its spine and bear witness to its story.
Inspired by: Dr. Martin Shaw, Scatterlings
Image by: Andreas Levers