January 2011
2 posts
Walking.
It’s not a yellow wood, but the road diverges anyway. The next step I take needs must be a choice. This familiar moment has held me before, with more or less or similar gracelessness. Each time I come to this place of choosing, I reach into the deep stillness of self to find the essential truth my life is a flawed effort to express. From that calm center comes the next step, driven by true...
Basil.
I dream in tones of sepia and basil, nostalgia and a wish to be cleansed of sorrow. I long for that aromatic - CRACK! - of leaf liberated from stem, the sweet greenblood clinging to hands in clouds better smelt than seen. I yearn for that piercing scent to sweep over my heart, driving forth the miasma of grief and claiming the jagged and torn edges in toll for its passing. No desire, it seems, can...