Sunday, October 24, 2010

Number One

Mountains shatter. The water freezes, widening cracks until the talus crashes down. We wait below the cliff.  As if the wind, pressing the crags and turrets, would finally tell the truth.  But this is merely the beauty of decay, things perfect in their falling apart.

So we push up the high trails, our legs lifting us – against gravity, against pain, against all thought of giving up.  Lifting us to the place where nothing cares, nothing matters, the place where there is only granite.  But the truth is not in the granite.  It is in the legs, it’s in the will. It is the mere decision – to climb.

Number Four

The light always goes out.  The breath eventually stops. The body cools; reaching the temperature of surrounding air.

Light and darkness become one.  The breath, in ceasing, becomes one with stillness.  A body finally joins the emptiness, the space between lives.  Every form of stopping, of dying, is a form of joining.  Of  returning.

The light always goes out.  The breath hesitates, quiets. Nothing is clear, nothing is known -- except in its opposite. As wind is defined by the lull between susurrant  bursts, whatever lives is made from the stillness and the dark.