There is a thrush in the brush, startled to silence. Am I
that soulful bird, hidden in the mash of high grasses, frightened of the titans
that stroll beside my nestled world? Brambles and briars, eerie and homely
compared to the lofty eagle’s nest. I did not soar, but found myself among the
ashes, white and brittle, transmuting my fingers into silver foxes, little
albatross waving over the seas of grasses. I’m an ash child, will o’ the wisp, treat me
to the hearth fires and chimney bliss.
Puppeteer, without you, I’m a deaf marionette, I pirouette
in the brush of wind. So guide me, deaf and blind, and I will dance as you
cannot, for the night is ever so dark and much quicker than light. And here I
am, in the night, fearing everything that is of twilight, the monster’s time.
But, miss, I must dazzle and mystify, and appear not terrified, and the show
must go on.
It’s my magic show, please watch close or you’ll miss how
clever it isn’t when I pluck a rose from a bouquet and tears from a kerchief;
when I place all my love in a wooden box and saw it in twain, and it suddenly
disappears, transforming into a lovely bunny, white as this ash between my
fingers.
Though the audience has already disappeared, which means I
don’t have to explain my final trick isn’t all smoke and mirrors. I don’t have
to explain anything at all.
http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/05/magicians-trick-ash-and-glass/
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