A spontaneous manifestation of iambic pentameter from out of the ether. An orphan verse, alas, still looking for the rest of the poem. I’ll be interested to see what it finds. . .
“There is a bridge to the Land of Sighs
That is not for the faint of heart.
The road is long, the route unmarked
And the map is full of lies.”
The leaves on the oak tree next door are a pile of crumpled russet velvet that shimmers in the morning sun as the wind brushes its fingers back and forth across the nap.
In the early morning darkness, eyes are useless. It is touch that defines the world — the warm cocoon of the bedclothes, the cool air on my nose where it pokes above the covers, the warm furry kitty body curled against my shoulder. After a moment on the surface of wakefulness, I take a deep breath of quietude, and sound like a whale back down into the depths of sleep.
“July had been doing a slow burn for weeks, when late this afternoon, the sulky, sun-bleached sky prestidigitated clouds from thin air, heaped them up into a line of portly, big-bosomed fin de siecle matrons in long grey skirts and wide-brimmed hats and sent them flouncing across the sky pitching hissy fits of steam-scented rain. It came hurtling down in huge drops that splatted when they hit, slapping against the skin hard enough to sting and drumming on the car roof like tennis shoes in a clothes dryer.”
The peregrini did not seek out the solitary wilds that they might speak to God where there was no other voice to be heard but theirs, but that in the lonely silences at the edge of the world, they might listen where there was no other voice to hear but God’s. And what else would God have to say in the wail of the wind, in the whisper of the waves, in the wild birds’ cries, in the vast and glittering darkness, but “I am here.”
“If, out of fear, you are constantly watching for danger, you will find it everywhere, and your world will shrink until your fear is all it has room for.” That is the useless bit of nonsense I took away from the silly little fairy tale of escapist fiction I just finished reading. Books that teach you such as that couldn’t possibly be great literature.
Three slices of cheese and 18 crackers. (Too bad that phrase doesn’t scan any better than that else it would make a great first line for the chorus of a country song.) Two slices of Sargento muenster cheese and a slice of Sargento sharp cheddar cheese and 18 Keebler Town House sea salt flavor Flatbread Crisp crackers. The cheese is cut into equal thirds lengthwise and the thirds cut into equal haves. A predictable taste – one sixth of a slice of cheese laid atop one cracker. A known taste. No surprises. My wallpaper program shows a photograph of white water rapids down a narrow canyon with steep, perpendicular walls. That is how my life is right now. Focus narrowed onto doing what is next, putting one foot in front of the other, getting through the tricky bit that lies just ahead. Sufficient unto the day . . .
The white cat bringing me a cat toy he has killed for me is sharply poignant. I set everything he does against the dwindling number of his days. He is an old man. He will go with his dignity intact; he will go while he still can get there on his own four feet. The spring song of the mockingbird outside my window runs bluntly perpendicular to the decision that weighs heavy on my heart.
The flanks of night are moonlight white, grey dappled with clouds.