plain
The sallow breath of the sea sat upon the dawn, the broad hush of gray, the soft kiss of wings as they rise. The wind, so soft and cool, caresses it all like a lover readying betrayal. This gentle ruse begins as retreat, and spins so slowly upon its heels you hardly notice the turning. There was a promise, and there was a plan, and then there is nothing at all. Even the memory evades the reaching of the sun.
All the bounty is scattered among chance and animals, all the mystery left beneath the flesh. Just the rhythm of feeding, just the singing of bones enduring work. Only so many, only so much, and the living reveal their last splendor, their latest last words. So it is with the fleeting gray, so it goes with these fits of green and these rumored blues. The story is not the depths of competition, but the slow attrition of lovely wonder. The story ends with the story in full erasure. Every mirror is a near miss.
At last no prayers, at least no immediate woes. The change in the pocket, the dirt upon the shoes. Tread so softly, soon all worry and grace lay in expressions of existence. Breath so softly even the air may forget. Too late to learn that it is not the mark upon the map or the prints in the earth, but the making of the map that commits us to our being. Too late to find that sleep is needed, but it can not be enough. Weary of this unremarkable grace, belly full of wonders, eyes close as if to dream. Eyes close, and the story supposes all the rest.
The sallow breath of the sea sat upon the dawn, the broad hush of gray, the soft kiss of wings as they rise. The wind, so soft and cool, caresses it all like a lover readying betrayal. This gentle ruse begins as retreat, and spins so slowly upon its heels you hardly notice the turning. There was a promise, and there was a plan, and then there is nothing at all. Even the memory evades the reaching of the sun.
All the bounty is scattered among chance and animals, all the mystery left beneath the flesh. Just the rhythm of feeding, just the singing of bones enduring work. Only so many, only so much, and the living reveal their last splendor, their latest last words. So it is with the fleeting gray, so it goes with these fits of green and these rumored blues. The story is not the depths of competition, but the slow attrition of lovely wonder. The story ends with the story in full erasure. Every mirror is a near miss.
At last no prayers, at least no immediate woes. The change in the pocket, the dirt upon the shoes. Tread so softly, soon all worry and grace lay in expressions of existence. Breath so softly even the air may forget. Too late to learn that it is not the mark upon the map or the prints in the earth, but the making of the map that commits us to our being. Too late to find that sleep is needed, but it can not be enough. Weary of this unremarkable grace, belly full of wonders, eyes close as if to dream. Eyes close, and the story supposes all the rest.