Barrier What keeps the night still? The grassy surface of Far Field, hypnotized snow. He recalls one witless childhood, now over him or above him. He waits for something to reach him, a cupful green of Spring, golden dreams of Autumn. Across the aged barrier, some morbid shades of mortal thoughts, once innocently held, take place again. Breeze burnishes in momentary promises. Forest rushes into the sea. Amidst the waves, He is his own sailor, majestically drifts away. Among these descendents of the rain, he climbs, sometimes sways down, like a ripple, traveling onwards and outwards, to his perfect hour of loneliness. There is no fiasco for a ripple. The lightness of non-being forbears all things. 2004-10-30 |