There are some things that are real, that you can see, that you can observe, like the moon, and grass and things. But for ideas to become real, they have to be played on your senses.
– Jane Campion
Across a turbulent ocean in hues of blue with hints of green, I traverse 10,565 km to touch the wild. Spoils of heated evenings span four years to entwine the presence and absence of two lovers in disparate realms.
As the wind blows from the east under the Flower Moon, I listen to the clatter of the shutters, the roiling of restless waves. From the balcony of midnight, I tease the rising mercury. A twist worthy of a woman’s will.
The orb of day descends into the well of night. In a torrid moment, I drape a length of gauzy green in the corner of a rung. Barely a dozen waning moons beyond, in a fiery ascension – I lay a length of crimson up the ladder. Silk less. Sinew to sinew.
When dawn breaks, I’m a flight risk held by a tight wrist. I duck under the overhang lulled by torrents of rain. I hear the crack of thunder in his head. I can turn or I can walk – slip barefoot along the rocks. I can raise my arms farewell and the sea will rile again. Or will I will the night?
With the backspin of a globe, I wrap my lavender and heather scarf around my neck and hurtle through the ether – from balmy fronds to windswept heath. With undying patience, my antithesis awaits. Until the end – and even then. I watch the blazing sun go down.
The mind is like a richly woven tapestry in which the colors are distilled from the experiences of the senses, and the design drawn from the convolutions of the intellect.
– Carson McCullers
Now at the edge of a spinning planet, I twirl the mercurial tide. A coil of will can always twist and turn – lay ready ‘til the spring of dawn or the fracture of a dawning. A twist I can’t resist.
On the eve of a summer solstice (twenty-five years ago) unwrapped in indigo, I gave birth to the sweet fruit of a decision. A vision rendered by my will!
On the eve of this summer solstice as the Sun reaches its northernmost point from the equator (before it reverses direction) – will I cling to lofty intentions?
Or will I hail another clandestine night (black as India ink) under the fickle stars? Will I climb the ladder rung by rung – touch secrets in the open sky?
Will I go or will I stay? Or will I simply be?
Or will branches of coral find us coiled in moonlight – one of three?
What a twist – I love to flee –
… it’s the agents of our imagination who really shape who we are.
― Chris Abani
Imagination, it takes us into dark places, as well as allowing us to travel to far places. A gift of the brain or a curse? Sometimes both.
timeless journey of finite life
pauses preserved in memory
Memories, phantasies, dreams and fears – questions always present
Your words always move and inspire me. I should really make it a habit to read your work before I write. I think I’m better for it. 🙂