Dear Infinite One, I am your daughter, hiding, now at the base of an Oak in a field of shorn wheat just past the old grange hall, with my toes splayed over the root system, reading in the arch of my foot, old messages left by Crows, the occasional dog, some Tit mice and, once, a sea gull having lost its way. I am the one with hands raised toward a leaden sky, my fingertips just short of bough and leaf; here, with a companion book, I call out to all angels circling earth; to a past continually mulched under by machines in order to bring forth a crop which will feed the thousands; some of my cries are prayer, others incantation found in the hooves of farm animals plowing toward their feed; still others are found in the shafts of sunlight marking the meridian between heaven and earth where once water had its way; and I am here having followed a trail of old rocks, now broken; following a call to stillness amidst the seeds shaken from heads of wheat which lie fallow, waiting for the first breath from warm dirt and rains; among the volunteers dropped from the claws of Robins, the Jay and every now and then, an Eagle hunting prey; I have come in early morning, grass still wet, my hands clasped behind my back, in reverence and with bowed head, to be among that which you have called forth and laid down, that which you have sundered and then called to rise; that in which you are revealed in sumptuous glory – which is to say, all creation, meaning clouds, creek, river bed and a Hawk hung in thermals; meaning the blood in my own veins and that of the Buck shot last evening, hanging and bleeding from some rafter; meaning, here, in the every day; where your magic is hidden between the leaves of Poppies now sleeping through what will be the cold of winter; meaning , that I am here oh, Infinite one, I come without much understanding, lacking in philosophy, having brought no treatise, fully short of sacrifice which could meet the thunder you produce, at will, in the skies above my head and, I am, only pauper, stripped of arrogance, knowing my insignificance, and yet you come to my rescue, repeatedly, though, in some way, through the working of this world, I will remain damaged yet committed to my singular amazement, and entreat the muse, that one day, I will have the words and presence to convey you as I see you – here, just at the base of my friend, the old Oak tree.
Posted on: Sat, 30 Nov 2013 20:56:40 +0000
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