Even especially a child can change the world: the boy with
stockings, suspenders, and too-big shoes and the lass with frilled dress, mother’s
necklace, whistling a new-found tune. Now, when the stars are too big for
solemn hearts and the moon, Olwen, larger than any room in the manse of my soul,
I contemplate the negative space of shadow, and is that light? And does the
lunar night illumine dust? Or twilight angels falling as broken stars,
meteorite well-stones wishing for right and wrong to clarify in the ripples of
falling fire?
Is the number of questions without answer, divided by the
number with, irrational or just am I? Do the heavens mock, or is the gravitas
pulling my own satire back into my own eyes?
We’re at the blurred lines of time, and I’m still running my
stopwatch to see if moments are faster than always, but I’ll wait until the end
for conclusive evidence. If this is a race, I’m wishing I hadn’t tied my shoes
together, and cinched the blindfold so tight, but with the heavens as my guide
I may be all right.
I’ve not gotten sufficient sleep lately. I had a few words
stuck in my head, and as I stared at the cloudy sky they rumbled around my
skull like thunder, but without the lightning strike cracking through the
fogginess of creativity. So there is a tiny bit of cleverness and a lot of
finding myself squinting my eyes at every word I write, wondering whether it
could be worse, and whether focusing on that aspect is actually driving me in
that direction. We’ll see, but for now there are questions whose answers I
might only find once I pass the starting line. I thinking I’ve only managed to
knot my shoes further, and maybe I must progress barefoot, for spiritual travel
is sanctified ground sometimes.
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