The heart's roots
are here under this black soil.
Every right word on your tongue
Has a green taste.
The truth's here
Closer than the world will confess.
--R.S. Thomas.
¬¬¬
The sullying of the mind, the heart, in this late hour. Bewildered. A time for sheltering, for gathering and taking stock. But what if nothing has accumulated over all these years? We're haunted by old ways of speaking, older notions of time from our distant past and so we still talk about 'conserving' and the 'web of life'. As if we still retained some deep connection to cyclical time, the cycles of life.
The seeds of time. Where will you plant them now? Which filed will be allowed to lie fallow? The soil, turned over with love, will bring forth what new things, which green words?
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