Who goes howling without a key - a plot, a scheme, a mystery? Knots are tied and knots unraveled along a road that’s highly traveled, winding in some mysterious way, puzzling pedestrians night and day, while water cries and wind speaks and frost makes roses of our cheeks. And who’s the potter and who’s the pot? And which is the vessel and which is not? For these queries, avow – avow! The answers are being written now on onionskin paper, smooth and light - on sleeveless arms, ghostly white - on leaves rustling on far away trees - on hills and in hollows, such as these.
I can’t help thinking that I would feel at home in the closed off hives under the pear trees, in amber stillness, in the warm wax cells - there to live a life of sweetness and daylight. But – somehow, I survive in a dim aging cellar, where the spirits settle among the oak barrels that rise in the darkness like communal hunchbacks, awaiting clarification.
Turning circles and pocketing stones, we were more astonished than we had ever been by the sweet leaves, and dry golden corn, and the flowers offering up their seeds – and the white horse, standing motionless, in the stark pasture, a hawk’s reflection appearing in his big old eye – their precious spirits merging interminably.
In the wind, we heard the weeping and laughter of the fiddles and banjos, harmonicas and mandolins, and we danced along for a little while in the grass, under yellow gingko leaves, eating wild grapes and hard, sweet apples. Toward home, at dusk, there was only the low hum of our voices - the intimate press of our hands.