Rite of Passage
“Shush” instructed the winter wind, on a very cold morning. The Sun’s familiar hug now weak, his usual toasty shawl much too light over my shoulders, and the steep cool-down made me shudder. I walked faster, as if it were possible to to flee the chill, cutting through every nook and cranny of my attire. My feet soon built up some friction, the promise of a little heat from the brisk movement. My mind wandered off with the same hurry. That man walking towards me from the corner, he’s wearing jeans and jeans aren’t warm at all. In fact, they’re awful cold ¿Why do people insist on wearing jeans in winter? “Hush!” it demanded, “listen, because this is a rite of passage”. ¿But isn’t this just another walk to the local mini market? The usual chore, one of many I cannot escape, because then ¿who’d prepare lunch? No need to answer. It was suddenly clear, for a few seconds. Spirit was present, it was the normalcy of the errand that deceived. I kept going. To my left, a lengthy stone-walled residence oozed its cool humor. The icy, whitened sidewalk, the uphill street like frozen slate, made me even colder. Today I might do this or maybe that, it depends, it’d be better if I check first and then… I strayed again. Ideas blew by like the last of the autumn leaves, wanting to be fresh, trying to be new, but no. Then his swift gust numbed my head with a chilly slap, “shuuuuush”. And I did. On my way back home, the ombre mountains stood guard as always, now shrouded under a minty vail; the sky a gauzy canvas with no defined horizon. Still silent, I carried my goods for the day, simple foods, basics for the fridge; my legs were already sore from lack of a good warm up. Around the corner and a new rush of wind funnelled my attention back. “Listen. It must be done, forget the legs, take comfort in the sky, you are seen, behind the gauze, these days so usual, so basic, are your rite of passage.”
Winter Scape Prayer
Make me the clearest water, a river’s modest current, transparent to the Sun’s arms, wintry cool though not frozen, winding lighthearted, all through out the original land. Make me crisp as linen, left to dry in the early winter breeze, to the matured caress of the daystar, my real lover. Give me if you may, the freshness of a dutiful morning, softly sloping towards the distance, all the inner children running towards me, frisky as home dogs. I hope for the scent of sunbathed hills, and the bite of sharp frost on my cheeks, the sky cleared of most clouds, infinite blue envisioned far and beyond. Make me more than a sketch, define this impression of a woman blurred against the straw fields, and sign this fine portrait as your own. Allow me the natural clarity of tall grasses, weed, obedient to the wind, free, wild again, but wise. Offer me up to the winter sky, let his frigid breath embrace this aching body. Its ok, we belong, the bite is no longer when I can melt to the chill. Now I walk on gladly, warm hands, warm feet. Crisp linen hung, swaying naturally, bleached, and the modest river our region’s pride, our last name in its winding current. Allow me then to strip away the clouds forever, and stay in my perfect winter scape.
Prayer to go
Help my impulse, let only the purest emerge, don’t allow me to think, enough pondering has been done here. Rush me toward my truest reality, that sudden drive to your designed road, that which is my true node, the vector of my mission. Whisper it to me in sleep, the ending words ever so loud, definite phrases to broaden my glance, to see the path set forth, and faith awaiting those first steps. Appease this mind and its lunar phases, its flippant nature, steady me into the ground indicated, all its grain. Allow me to merge with the observant mountains, the steadfast trees, the pounding headaches of the city, even its decay. Train my instinct, prop it up with your breath, make it your most faithful servant, even wiser than my thoughts. Gift me the beat of thunder in my footsteps, a sense of safety for the unchartered land. Leave my mind vacant of choice, hold her down under your gaze, contained. Give us the great halt. Tame our horses into the next level of freedom, steady our anxious needs, the aimless roaming, delusion. Make us sturdy again, fit for the job of carrying forth only what is truly yours.
Autumn shades
You’re dissolving, an invisible flame burns the pages quietly in the stillness of your study. Ashen skies glow softly, cradling the twilight sun; soft autumn light drizzles between branches, beyond the sliding window of your routine. You’re are fading, while scribbling the usual, at your desk. My body only wants a moment, this very one, no past or future, no history to tell, no projections for tomorrow. In this way I will disappear too, and though you’ll remember I was dear to you, though you might keep the tenderness, the vague tune that was me, you’ll find we cannot precisely repeat the tones anymore. And somehow, the song does live. We have been, back when the game seemed so real, and I made myself believe the tattered reality, sewn together by familial duties, but no, nothing comes now, I’ve got no product to show, I never could stitch like that, like you do. This is my new direction, it breaks off under that archway of trees, at the fork where we’re heading. All the while you believe you can still hear the discards of autumn crunching under our steps. Now you must keep me as that song you can’t really remember. It keeps lingering on the tip of your tongue, between a memory and certainty. Soft as the pale January light, distant as a busy butterfly, ashen as the last of the shrivelled pages, ashes wafting in the study, before final disintegration. Know I tried my best, I played the role just for you.