the winter sun's halo above the library, dispelling the finer particles; on ledges, pigeons alighting, and suddenly taking flight, fearful. the dark-slit windows of the fortress library; my mind on a precipice.a speckled pigeon scaling the incline of the lamppost. a student turning on his heels...
from where i am, i get to see so much; but little of the outside filters through my darkened windows. I spy, with my little eye, something beginning, and something ending.these worlds in miniature, fragile and precious, the brightest hour in the heart's mirror when I speak your name.
the darkness in our hearts: anything goes: nothing comes. the open field, a diagonal dry pathway, that cuts back to home, that i know even in the dark. i can find my way when light begins or when shadows fall about me. but when you look my way, I'm lost and falter. the purity of our hearts remains unseen, unknowable-God only knows; what is impure shines with its own name, is recognizable, is broken.
Everywhere around you there is the inheritance of silver, the splendour of green, but only in the heart the glitter.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled...
~~~
He said "no" and really meant "yes"
she said "i hate you" but she spoke so softly...
each denial is a denial of something.
The executioner laughed, and though he didn't see it, word of it brought a smile to the prisoner's heart.
'the night is so dark
the way so short
yet you do not wake
against my heart'---G. Hill.
The winter heart, that struggles with its own blindness, full of impure thoughts. Dreams of spring. The blossoming of flower from stone and ice.
~~~
okay, okay, I know: this is supposed to be about politics...
No comments:
Post a Comment