Frames Of Reference
When I was a child
there were hollows in the undulating land, in which to sink,
in which to press your body to the earth, in which to face the sky, alone.
There were trees no taller than a man, and there were stones
and there were cold, dry, silent living things on which to lie, alone.
There was endless wind, and there was light and there was half-light. And
in small, close, fragrant pools of calm, within the hollows,
in the ground, there were
fragments of wind, shreds and eddies of wind
torn by trees
torn by needles from the trees
torn by tiny threads connecting spores deriving from and
multiplying in the wind--corruption, pure and slow, tearing
rocks asunder into dust
blown by the wind
to be the tears to wash my upturned face
to chill my flesh
to beat upon my hollow chest
to sting my eyes.
I did not know if I was falling.
I could not tell if rocks and silent living things
were drawn to me.
It seemed as if the sky was deep below me, endless,
waiting for a momentary lapse of concentration,
waiting for a blink, a sign of weakness,
waiting for a single cry.
I never fell too far into the pieces of the wind.
I never sank into the deepest sky. I flailed;
I did not fly. Breathless--smaller, small--I did not rise, nor fall
but floated lost among the drifting spores.
Published in E-zine Makar, Winter 1997 (Vol 3)
Copyright John D Porter © 1996
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