That raft of impossible clouds sets sail across the blue sensibility of sky. Only the slender come hither finger of the horizon beckons. That orchestra of light emanating from the clouds at sunset, what I once called the godlight, a celestial hand reaching down from the sky, but one can never see far beyond that first light.
My voice is made of the silence of hallowed bones, and hoarfrost. The fog rallies up like a sleepy dragon from the deep valley. There is no sound of mercy gasping for breath from the hangman’s noose. Other than that of surety and swiftness. I prefer the untamed daughters of laughter, resolution, and memory. An epiphany, the lark singing of the earth.
Today, the currents are relentless, I think of that deep force within, the voice of truth, the undercarriage of justice. I think of the voices of strong women, not born of Adam‘s rib, navigating history without Diogenes’ lantern leading the way. Grasping for traction under the thrashing waves, that gravelly look you get when you’re blinded by the sun and spluttering for air.
An elder of the community, a writer of wisdom, spoke, but you could hear the beginnings of another voice calling him home where there is no tomorrow. What is revealed, what is lost. All there is, is, what is. Will he wait for me at the end of the path?
The muddied track, the work of clay and loam, and flowers wilting in the hot sun. A child’s hand grasping all that fleeting beauty of meadows. The dark void waiting to swallow us up at the end, no transparent workarounds or bribes offered, no star maps other than that of a shaft of godlight at sunset after the storm.
2/25, Patrice Vecchioni, Write your voice
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