Blue Galactic Hand 12.11.18
I trudge through piles of pink blue snow. Fresh flakes quickly fill the path I leave as they land, feather light. The path disappears under snowy mounds disturbed by my lumbering legs; they shift and slide, soft and deep, eating up my trail. There is a glow ahead, glimmering between the flakes that spiral into my face and latch on to my eyelashes, the tip of my nose; I lick them as I walk toward the glow emanating from a giant, a giant tulip tree which stands above all others in a grove of tulip trees. Once upon a summer day, a sea of dark green leaves waved by their feet, with white plumes that rose bearing sprays of those tiny beads that were incandescent black cohosh blossoms. Here l pause and catch my breath, shake out snow covered skirts, and knock booted feet together at the heels, knock knock knock.
I hear the sound of a key turning in a lock, click, and a door creaks. Carved from the rough bark of this giant tulip tree, scattering pink blue snow all over my boots and skirts, it slowly swings open and rays of light spill everywhere. I blink, momentarily blinded; then digging in the pockets of my skirts I pull out a small teak box inlaid with zig zagging streaks of turquoise and moonstone, which holds what I need. A pair of obsidian lenses. I pop them in under my eyelids. A few blinks later my sight adjusts and I see into the illumination. A tin can hangs from a branch on the other side of the open door; I step inside and see that it’s filled with nuts and seeds. Then I hear thumping below my feet and I feel them. I feel them rising.
I feel the words, they rise out of their coils sinuously and snake their way up; where they hammer with their heads to penetrate roots, rocks, and deep clay. I feel the words, they rise, arching their backs and undulating to enter the whisper of a crevice where they climb out and curl around my booted feet. I feel the words bind me to the ground in a tight grasp that holds me fastened in place. I feel the words, rising, inching their way up my legs and thighs, wrap me in a skirt then sprout leaves as they twist and vine higher. I feel the words, rising in an embrace that dresses me in a girdle of green, while they send out tendrils to catch branches and begin pulling.
I feel myself lifted up from the ground, out of my boots, pulled by strong words into mid air, suspended for a breath while they weave to and fro, lightning quick, then they drop me into a sling and I swing, pushed by the words. I rise higher and higher until my toes touch drifting clouds, pregnant with snow, and with a tap of words knocking them open, they give birth to a swirl of flakes. I reach out and catch them one by one, pull them toward me, then cast them out again, while the words send me flying on their swing.
I feel the words, descending in a mantle of white across my shoulders, spilling feather light onto the ground below, forming a blanket rolling down the hill. I feel the words wind their way through a crevice into the kitchen, where they whisper love songs, rising to wrap themselves around loaves of bread, lifting them off the counter for a moment, and then with a sigh they come to rest. I feel the words inside dough, rising to leaven and crack open crumb, while outside a golden crust forms in the bowels of a hot cauldron. I feel the words make bread from earth, water, fire, and the chiming of pipes; rising to catch air currents they fly out the chimney and bring me bread to eat where I swing.
I feel the words fill me until there are no more words.
Only silent digestion.
Then the vultures come. They pick through the scraps, gnaw curls from my boots, render green skirt and girdle, chew through the swing, leave bones in their wake.
I feel the words, rising they rush as a wave toward the skeletal remains awaiting fleshing.
I feel the words and the world is made whole for word is holy presence.
I feel the words as they travel, fleeting swift, a glimmer in shooting stars, slick ice and thoughts to quick to catch by hand.
I feel the words as wild horses run knee deep in waving grasses, hoofbeats pounding, kicking up quickening dust, they enter the blue green river and swim through foaming rapids, nostrils flared, in action.
I feel the words, red and tart, jewels held in pomegranate bellies until ripe, then skins peel open and they spill into the mouth of an earthen bowl, ruby lips rimmed with sugar, salt, and spice.
I feel the words thumping below my feet, rising, until they reach my ears and kiss me and then there is silence and the words are gone.
I feel the silence, in the silence word gestates and then a world is born.
In silence I reach for the tin can and step outside the door.
I kneel and brush away snow then quietly arrange seeds, oily green, powdery yellow, shiny orange, and creamy kernels; they’ll feed the world beauty, joy, nourishment, sustenance, and harmony in the depth of dreaming winter. I feel no words while I work, I feel peace.