Wednesday, June 15, 2022

Multiple Gardens, Multiple Truths

 

Like a child, taking it at face value, needing more clarity. I was accused of suspicion, when it shouldn’t be, while it keeps muddy—like mire, like stealth, sly and uncaring.     People are uncertain.     Strength is possession, while needing a certain outlook, some pristine image. If we look at humans as unclear/unclean, embarrassment will show its nature; if humans are clear/clean, our dealings are pure, desire isn’t filthy—with red tape, dotted lines, and loopholes to examine. I wash my hands, ask certain questions, remembering what it feels like to be clear and clean.     Gallicas are growing—in a patch near zinnias—an older woman plucks one a day; golden eyes, small frame, delicate hands, in sandals, exquisite feet. A long dress. A fitted blouse. A brilliant smile. She must come to herself—everyone knows her aura; everyone greets her energy. The simplicity of the beauty of the graces.     I can’t see the rain, while it pours in, the lady is a widow; someone once graced her arc, pledged to live eternal, so much passion in one glance.     I imagine aging with a friend, much history between us, too much to calculate; the mathematics, the science, mixed with miracles and eyes probing cake and creams.          

Time was Brief

    With deeper allure—to ward off ghosts—melancholia is an empire. Such dialogue confuses—: one wrestling despair. It was remote living, in...