At The Bottom Of My Ink Well

Behind my eyelids, there lies a whispering aspen grove in the crisp white mist of an autumn sunrise. Crystalline pearls of dew adorn the curled icy fronds of lady fern and scatter like diamonds in the morning grass. A mockingbird preens his soft grey feathers on a cold naked bough, melting with the muted hues of a sleeping forest. His song cuts sharply through the crisp mountain air, trembling through hoarfrost flowers blooming on a mother log, and rushing into the playful splash of a quiet stream.

Just there, where a holly bush covets an old cedar stump, comes the dainty step of a young doe. Softly through frozen loam she pads, the litter of fall rusting slightly beneath her tread as she  leaves the cover of tree line for the crisp grass in a sleepy meadow.

The sun rises slowly from an eastern peak, bathing the wood in a soft rosy glow and turning each frozen petal into a colorful prism of light. It makes music, this dawn, like the pure chime of a bell or fingers dancing lightly on the strings of a harp. The mockingbird knows this tune, as well as the meadowlark and the sparrow who join him in the ruddy glow. The song of sleeping seeds and meditating tree roots supply a slow steady hum, and the chuckling stream winds in and out of the notes in a complicated dance.

My footsteps through this thought are a  BOOM, BOOM of native drums. Skin painted in the tribal lines of dappled light through aspen boughs, the soles of my bare feet remember the bloom of spring, and the bare soul of my flesh remembers the earth. My breath is a breeze rustling in the grove, and my eyes reflect the summer like a still pool of water.

I am the metaphor that simplifies epiphany.

I am the ink that illustrates divinity.

I am a worm that transforms death into life.

 

I am merely a thought, awaiting a sculpture.

 

 

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