a man shorn of his badge, his creed, his uniform, is a yearning thing,
and a woman without her apple tree a will-o’-the-wisp.
The mantle thrown, mask unworn, sojourner everyman, a little dark thing like a torched angel,
and the rays, the rays of regard like black light, all folded in a corner of the mind,
until the will-o’-the-wisp.
Having lived a little, learned a little, worn and lost those red dancing shoes, lost and made my silver hands, shed a few skins, starved a little,
if it is true that soul claps its hands and sings, and louder sings, “for every tatter in its mortal dress,”
then perhaps I may learn to speak now.
And you see the shape of yourself, tall and light in your eyes, under your eyes, neither shadow nor flame but cutting both. And you are that. Not the edgy skirmishes of self and other you ‘tsk’ over in your daily rounds. Those are not your selves, they are your shadows, changeable with the light.
April 27, 2013
Urbana was beautiful today. Birds standing quietly in the grass in the gentle rain. Moss on old wet bark, on bare white bark, white flowers hung among faded sienna leaves. Cherry blossoms, those maids of spring, abandoning their flowers to the rioting grass. Every tip of still-bare spindly trees hung with raindrops. All the green yet grave and calm. There will be life. For a moment, there will be life.
May 8, 2013
Grosbeaks and brown thrashers, cardinals and doves, and fifty fighting finches on my nondescript balcony. Summer is here.