For the slaty blues and greens and purple-grays of stark
outside,
The silence of a bruise, bleak yet more alive.
Each footfall crunches deeper into snow-shrouded leaves
Where icy moonlight reveals the tiny bones of childhood
memories,
Their skeletal remains filling in behind me like a fading reminiscence.
Grief, once carved in stone, now stands bright green with
forgetfulness
Softened by lichens grown lush through an unending reign of
tears
Dulling an upside-down world with well-stropped silver linings.
I retreat toward echoing solitude, a candle in a vast
expanse.
Words become my playmates like made-up games when I was
young.
Soundscapes and small dramas become my closest friends, imaginal
yet dear.
A tiny orange beacon guides me home, my shadow long before
me.
Text © 2013 Edward P. Morgan III
Photo © 2012 Sonya Reasor (guest photographer)
Text © 2013 Edward P. Morgan III
Photo © 2012 Sonya Reasor (guest photographer)
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ReplyDeleteNotes and asides:
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So what is it like being a writer? It's working on a piece and stumbling across the word "imaginal" in the dictionary. Definition (adj): "Of, relating to, or having the form of an insect imago." (American Heritage Dictionary, 4th ed.) Not what I thought it might mean but it works better than I expected so I kept it. Check out the entry for “Imago” in Wikipedia and it might make better sense.
Picture Notes:
ReplyDeleteThe picture was taken by Sonya Reasor in Lebam, WA at the Maple Hill Cemetery. The night I first saw it, I was up at 3 a.m. scribbling lines. That, to me, says she captured something. I am honored she allowed me to post it with this poem.