HOW TO LIVE WITH YOUR DEATH in the forefront of your mind, looking out the bleared windshield at what’s rushing toward you, what you’re rushing onto without brakes? Waving at our passing, other lives invite comparison. Plants and their flowers, their swelling fruits, their sloughing off and greening on. Insects that inspect and taste every bit of the living, whether they swarm the air or tunnel dirt and wood, or forage overland. Feathered and furred lives reaching up beyond our ken or beneath us burrowing, that seem to proceed without crippling self-consciousness. That go their ways in cycles of youth and fruition and decay, that migrate or stand eternally fixed in the here-and-now. Some would seem to remember. All seem to embody what they know, to wear their scars and years, indifferent whether their meaning be read rightly or mistranslated, or taken for the illiterate scribble of winter storms upon a once-smooth skin.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Nov 2013 17:47:31 +0000
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