It's funny, this sudden pocket where I want to write, where I can divine the thread of perception, where I know there are words there: supple and willing like the best lovers. From whence? Wherefore? It would be easy to believe that I am not also this person. It would be easy to believe that this is not also my brain. It would be easy to believe so many things (untrue! unjust!), and yet here, the simple fact remains. And the word on the page. And the word on the page.
Funny pocket: dear, lined in ermine. Silvery, with a silky feel. Slide into you like a tongue over the teeth: accustomed to the old drops and crags, but not the slick, hard surface which is suddenly new and sheer. Suddenly alliterative; suddenly in a fine shape. Playful like a bird with its questing beak, moving seed to the side, and moving seed to the other side. Metaphors winging up with all their associations, unspooled, suddenly saved. Months of things hoarded, moving up in an unseemly parade. Like Noah and his menagerie: two by two of timbre and shade. A trope on parade. And hope on parade.
Rare, precious, timely you came. Invocation to play; invitation to praise.
I…. might be a skier.
5 years ago
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