There must be a beginning here somewhere. There have been lots of ends.
This may be a bit discursive; if so, I apologize. I just took a walk. The harvest moon hung impending, the clouds were salmon-bellied off to the tempestuous west but as they skated in front of the bone-white moon they turned starkly white and black, racing, with a beauty that hurt to look upon, into the mysterious east on some unknown yet compelling errand. I looked at the moon. It stayed, silver, always. The wind spoke of ends, spoke of beginnings, spoke of the continuing thread with no end nor beginning that runs through us and through us, upon which we are born and upon which we die; it spoke of summer’s ghost, it spoke of now wizened autumn, it spoke of brooding winter and swamp-damp spring, through the door goes one and into the light, from the light comes one and through the door; a smiling baby, an old man breathing his last in an eyes-wide coma, a man not quite sure where his road is going but who’s willing to follow it through the star-soaked valleys.
My love had left. She was not with me. We kissed warmly and she drove away.
There was little room for stars. The clouds, somehow both lumbering and fleeting, obfuscating yet illuming, tore through the night; my shadow fell before me, flickering in the staccato light of the permanent moon.
Tonight was a beginning. Tonight was an end. Tonight was divine.
Saturday, September 22, 2002, 2:08 a.m.
This may be a bit discursive; if so, I apologize. I just took a walk. The harvest moon hung impending, the clouds were salmon-bellied off to the tempestuous west but as they skated in front of the bone-white moon they turned starkly white and black, racing, with a beauty that hurt to look upon, into the mysterious east on some unknown yet compelling errand. I looked at the moon. It stayed, silver, always. The wind spoke of ends, spoke of beginnings, spoke of the continuing thread with no end nor beginning that runs through us and through us, upon which we are born and upon which we die; it spoke of summer’s ghost, it spoke of now wizened autumn, it spoke of brooding winter and swamp-damp spring, through the door goes one and into the light, from the light comes one and through the door; a smiling baby, an old man breathing his last in an eyes-wide coma, a man not quite sure where his road is going but who’s willing to follow it through the star-soaked valleys.
My love had left. She was not with me. We kissed warmly and she drove away.
There was little room for stars. The clouds, somehow both lumbering and fleeting, obfuscating yet illuming, tore through the night; my shadow fell before me, flickering in the staccato light of the permanent moon.
Tonight was a beginning. Tonight was an end. Tonight was divine.
Saturday, September 22, 2002, 2:08 a.m.
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