It must have been early, on a warm summer evening, one year ago now.
The sky was so blue that day, a million butterflies couldn't have filled it.
Midsummer, a stagnant pond. I might have been silt, drifted, unsettled.
How I loved the delicate green dragon fly, its opalescent hexagonal eye,
and spidery wings like dew drop netting, mirrored upon a velvet reed.
It went beyond my breath, so that when that dragon fly lifted into flight,
I wept for its golden hours to come, its perfect unending moment.
Yet there was a strange transparency about me, most unlike this place.
My green eyes strayed into the changling wood and I remained as silence.
I was the great unknowing before these trees birthed from the ground.
And when I spoke it was as if the worlds of insects spoke within me.
My days were eternities, maelstroms, whirlpools of rainbows and fishes.
There were small miracles in everything and the rocks were holy.
I was often accompanied by those who only whispered my name.
It was difficult to hide, from those who cried, so I went to them.
I caste no shadow, in the place where you had stood ... your last footsteps.
A rain shower couldn't have told a scantier tale, than the one I tell you now.
I do not know where I have slept or for how long, only that I am awoken.
I am warm and soft like spring returned, fine mist on a new leaf uncurled.
Listen, to the glorious silence. Listen to that diamond hum in the morning.
Will I return into this clearing with my stony gaze and my reedy whispers?
Will my heart break like winter and wash away when the great thaw comes?
I cannot tell. I have never known. Look at what you have turned love into.
And now I must rise as the dawn from a lake and sing this season into faith.
