16:41 Sparrow Song (come home)
Standing in the open field I find a sudden sweetness in the different, meeting airs, how it seems the momentum of my breath builds a burrow in the wind. Spirit might be this wordlessness working a nest in the word. It happens the way that time moves within itself. The living recall how they have lived and it is as though the spirit is stuttering. In my dream I called you 'home' and the word made a pain like winter's light in my body, white and cold. It amounts to nothing much, in the waking world, a spot of dryness in the mouth or a wound. Pray, mind, dream me a word with no face. Say, Crater. Kiln. Hummingbird. Firefly. Say, light on the ledge of a window, lightning there. Memory is this moment containing itself, luminous and long as water making a cave in the edge of stone. The speed of my breath within the speed of the wind. Poised as lips at the rim of a hand cupping an absence the size and smoothness of an eggshell, deeply drinking. Spirit might be this. |