Thursday, June 7, 2018

The sinews and the bones


Imagine the luxury of sitting down and having nothing at all to write. And then the birds begin to sing. And words or no words, as raindrop is to ocean, you realize you are at least a small part of what is being written. Calm here, a tempest there, sails tattered and crew gone mad, Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink, and you think, how wonderful it all is, this living, dying, and carrying on.

’T is a spirit journey. ’T is sinew and bone.

Someday
this old language
will stretch
until it snaps,
leaving me
with two live ends
and a bright sting
upon my hands.

Even now
the strands
are taut
and thin,
the blue nerves
of words exposed.

Blood
and meaning
are the same,
so whisper
the sinews
to the bones.

The body sick, the body hurt, the body bent, the body in need of a cane, the body warm, the body cold, the body wise above all in all it has known and felt. And so the spirit goes. ’T is truly a dance to love, in which first is last and last is first, and mother is daughter, and father is son. And now I hear a dove.



2 comments:

Stream Source said...

All these things.

The sinews and bones have been aching plenty. Manual-labor-chores from sun up to sundown as though I'm the young person I'll forever be in my heart. Little regard for the aged flesh that fulfills my requests, but later protests.

My spirit sings your song day and night. I sing with it, but never write down the words.

You have. I thank you.

William Michaelian said...

We’re getting ready for company this weekend. And after a long dry spell (or what seems long to us ducks), rain is expected beginning tomorrow afternoon, and continuing through Sunday. The garden will love the specially formulated sky nourishment, and so will I.

Keep doing, keep aching, keep singing, and thank you too.