bask

Comes the tired eyes, comes the drifting tinsel, these clouds around the moon. Wandering in the darkened yard, blackberry bramble and redwood fence, caught off guard by the halo framed in the pine. That beaming brush against being, seeing at once moment and mystery, knowing the brief kiss of wisened bliss. It goes quick these days, just like time I suppose, but oh that moment— oh how we glow. Touched by the myth through the quick, body caught in the meeting of the abstraction and the matter, the sort of glory where I long to bask. 

Fretful corridors waiting around each corner, old doors that don’t bother keeping out the devil, every wolf welcomed as a guest. Still chambers full of dust and expired charms, this haven of spores and spiders, the rituals threadbare and mostly smoking. Magic will make it, whether it should be so. Most of us are almost there, on the day side of the dreaming, going to war for these oases that are the foundation of the principalities of the long mirage. We spin ourselves into almost anything with a word or two. Imagine the damage 8 billion of us can do. I sit indoors tapping glass and plastic, turning pictures into prayers. 

Life is the roots and the branchings. Life is the dive under the lowered slab with the panache to grab its hat. Life is turning dust and ash into soil, the grasping at every aspect, the trying of every trick. It’s that thick chunk of code that we carry in common, it’s every variable and phenomenon rolling as lands. We are the teeming unknown in the depths of the ocean. We are the river as long as we run. Tired though I am of the bastinade of these daily drubbings, bitter as I am in the desert of my soul, in these instants of beautiful impact I can see how it’s worth it in small doses. Whatever becomes of me, something will become of it.