I
A quick breeze through the door,
The click of a knob,
And then,
Amid the dank pre-constructed notions,
The blue ink in straight lines on paper,
Outbursts of discontent,
Of whining children that want popcorn,
From the high-nosed whim of spoiled seeds,
They are distracted, retracted, attracted
To the track playing on black airwaves,
That sings,
“Satisfaction… Content… Pleasant… Comfort!”
And they howl along with it,
Wolves crying for the prey,
A prayer sent everywhere,
But a cost paid in blood.
II
The curtain opens slowly, a rift running down quickly as they retract from each other. But the heavy red velvet cloth shouts for a birth, a union or reunion between we and them. We are astonished, mouths gaping with surprise, for we expected the curtain to fall, then rise, or not to open at all. A play begins as the spot light fades in, an eerie balance between soft white light and sheer darkness waking our vision. But are we actors? Do we have parts to play? No, how can we be actors, for we have watched the curtains separate; The light is on stage, not on us. But the play does not start, for there are no men in costumes, no women dancing, no child singing. We grow uncomfortable, silence and darkness around us, hiding us from each other. The stage remains lit, and static, but we watch, for hours, as nothing ensues. Soon, the exit sign will ignite, and we will all leave this void, nothing gained.
III
I watched my son from the edge of the pool as he stood motionless, wet, shivering under dark summer clouds. He could not see me, and I watched as he stared out at the water before him. He looked tense, even frightened of what he might do. I wondered what could possibly be going through his head. I knew well his fear of diving, and it tore me to watch him try to overcome it. He stood, a tragic figure that was the joy of my life, and brought me sorrow.
I yearned to share with him the simplicity of his dilemma, to ease his fear with my knowledge, with my assurance, but I could not. I raged inside like roaring seas, ships sinking within me. If only he could know the utter relief that comes only after success, then he would commit, then he would place his trust in me, and in himself. But he just stood there, faithless, innocent, vulnerable, idle. I was pained by my son’s relentless fears of the world, and angered by their authority over him.
It continued to rain.
IV
A tree, budding yet
Bare,
Dead
Yet still struggling through the circles of nature,
And a figure there,
Sure but fearful,
Calm yet wired by betrayal,
Breaking fruit to feed a murder of crows,
Who draw blood from the open hands.
A face looks down
Through the web of branches,
For the fall is long,
And the ground beneath rigid.
Fingers gently stroke the branches of an ivy that grows alongside the tree,
Parts not forgotten,
Limbs reaching out into empty space,
If only to fill the air with their questions,
with their longing to search,
with their dream, of discovery.
Why don’t the leaves point inward?
Do they remember from whence they came?
They must, else they would look inward,
They would grow not away,
But everywhere.
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