The FELT HEART
On this mountain, I fashion arrows from my rowan, and watch
as flowers run white, and fruit bleeds red. Here I am, without a stone, at the
bottom of the mountain. I lost my bow somewhere along the iridescent stream,
while I followed it in tandem, until I arrived at your spring. I might wade in
your pool, and lose all humility, like so much flotsam, in the shipwreck of me.
I would
rest in your cove, allow myself to be cradled by your felten walls, but while I
dream, I breathe fire in my sleep. What arcane memories of a cooler time might
tempt me to risk it? However tempted I may be, I cannot; flame to your heart,
it would mean.
On this
path that leads to an immortal realm, be unctuous with your instruction. I can
aim for the stag who defies my way, (a tortured buffalo stance), but the marrow
in my motions is torpid at best. Instead I will feast until a moribund place
relieves me of my living (relieves me of my change).
The
diaphanous, silky cloth of your robes, would do better on the dirt of this
trampled road. And I come here from the mountain, and I have faced un-obsequious
things, to stand before you now, to offer me on repeat.
These
hands? They are clay, and stationed for the remains: of your felten heart, your
ripened heart. Mine, and mine always.
CAS 11/23/15 06.23Pm
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