“She’s wonderful.” It’s the only part of the dream I remember. Handwritten in pencil on some tabla rasa hanging between here and there.
Here must be the birthplace of cumulus. And there, right over there, is where I baptized myself an hour ago in the brine of infinity.
But who’s she? A friend or shade tree waving hello from the shore? A luminous bolt cracking open the suddenly dark sky? Is she a marble pillar, a windmill, the white pebble I carry home in my pocket? Or is she this blooming island, giver of vivid dreams? (She’s wonderful…)
At dawn, I wake and wonder about the single bird whose song starts first and is followed by the rest: Is she elected, is it her turn, or does she volunteer? I close my eyes, lying still until the sound of whoever she is fills me. Until I become for a moment a song without a skin.
Weeds or Wildflowers
Jim says the wildflowers I’m admiring in the field below the cottages are weeds, really. The result of the ducks trampling over the seasonal grasses he’d sown years before. Today’s confetti spread will be next season’s wilted straggle.
My father didn’t like us to call plants weeds. Plants have names. A weed, he would explain, is just a plant you don’t want. By this definition, any plant could be considered a weed.
I’ve only been watching this field for two months. Long enough to learn the names (though I’ve yet to do so). Long enough to see it drink, heighten and open into this. “This” is ancient, really.
I suppose the easiest way to weed a field, (Jim would probably agree), is to accept each sprout without preference and allow Nature to determine which will be sustained.