For Shimon

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And the winters are so many

and the winters are not so many

and everything feels so close to me

the Caspian Sea

the skeleton dress

the man with turban pastel

everything feels so close to me

and somebody’s on the moon as well .

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And I hear your name

and I hear my name

over the loudspeaker

with a million others

white sleeping tents so many

the dreams singing , all yelling to dispel

the unexpected questions

bewilderment to foretell.

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And it’s written over the land

and it’s written on a neon sign

and the fish make rainbows

and bodies scatter Jerusalem

dead , dead and soft like brown mangoes ripe

and children shoot machine guns killing the gazelle

and the winters are so many .

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And into the Hall of Extinction

and into the Ship of Imagination

and into frozen lakes of Titan to dwell

where my mother is dead

and everything feels so close to me

all the fields so soft and green

and God , God a trilobite with three eyes

watching the ground swell .

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And who was I

and who were you

and no one wants to give it up

and everything feels so close to me

and the winters , the winters , they are so many .

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Credits :

Inspired by ShimonZ at thehumanpicture.wordpress.com

Outlook – Sara Wickenheiser Photography

Snow – Dale De Vries Photography

Running – Aela Labbe Photographies

A Winter’s Meditation

” He who binds to himself a joy
does the winged life destroy .
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
lives in eternity’s sun rise . ”
William Blake

A humbling and beautiful experience to read Michaels work …

Embracing Forever

We had our first snow the day before yesterday—a sticky-heavy whiteness you could tamp into stable shapes—then a smattering more yesterday, and this morning I am witness to wonders I realize only now have been in the making for days.  The third act is the revelation.  Soft golden light pours sideways across the sky from a low-lying sun, and the second ridge is garnished with fog.  The air and the land are rising together, drawing thin.  Closer by, bare trees in the yard are tipped with orbs of flickering color—beads of blue, red and green that twinkle and dance, then fall to the ground in lengthening streaks of glowing yellow.  Beneath the trees, it is raining.

But only there.

There’s a meaning in the scene that fills me.  I know what is on display, but its history eludes me.  The raining tree is a dictionary of potentials.  I realize each instance…

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