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Whisperings
(Oil on canvas, 52" x 44")

Whisperings

Not “the wood between the worlds,” this,
where grass keeps growing and the mind,
impersonal and serene as a minor buddha,
grows vacant in its contemplation. It is
more like the dark wood where Dante
starts his journey – exactly nowhere, a
solitude edged with light but haunted
by regret, thin trunks twisted together
in a tangle of sighs. It is a false refuge,
a stopping place for wanderers, a haven
for rabbits and raccoons and vagrants.

There were secrets. I will never tell,
you said. Let us bury them here, where
the nameless leaves, the anonymous flora
claim your attention, Thou-ing your I.
We were once . . . young, full of desire,
full of the world’s beauty and promise,
refusing to admit time’s boundaries,
bursting to be ourselves, not knowing
who we were or how we might be other.
Impossible to find a future when pulled by
the past, a retrospect of all we longed for.

Our memories too will soon disintegrate
in the earth, a humus of impure thought,
a mingling of elements in potter’s clay,
stuff of our children’s dreams, fantasies,
aspirations. We needn’t tell – no truth, no
lasting substance. Give us this day our
bit of silence, our muted colors, our slice
of lost tranquility. I will lay me down
to sleep; I will rise and proclaim the glory
of the Lord. I am nourished and gathered;
I will accept once more the hard voyage.

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