Wednesday, January 16, 2008
there is this almost unbearable beauty
snow is falling, I am driving
radio plays a song made of music boxes and chimes
and the sound seems to come from the snowflakes
whirling, and floating, across my windshield
whirling, and floating through the sky
releasing this music into the air
a magic suspended in the moment
Some beauty inherent in watching snowflakes land in a puddle alongside the road.
The snowflakes disappear, melting in, but do not evaporate, they are joining, gathered.
I see the weathered barn of red, backed by purple grey clouds, giants in the sky.
The barn's windows catch the light as I drive by, each little pane shimmers, flashes.
The telephone wires, bands of light (of white gold) gilding the countryside.
The water in the pond is thick and cold, at one end the top is frozen, the ducks glide.
Part of me coalesces. Trying to gather the meaning written in this visual scene.
A poem spoken directly to my soul.
The words, the meanings, my mind can not yet hold.
Vibrant arches of red thorn bushes, woven in the white bronze thicket.
Every tree a perfect sculpture of earth, of sky, of water, of time.
The top half of the white birch, illuminated by sunlight, one note held long and clear, I lean in, to hear.
An old house, windows gone, layers taken off, peeled back, only the underlying structure remains.
All is exposed and open.
Are the hands working upon it, tearing it down, or rebuilding it?
It stands there bare in its beauty.
I am witness to its being,
upon this moment in time.
And I wonder again, if I play any sort of song for them?
A woman driving by in a car; do they hear me?
Do I reflect anything, that can have meaning, or beauty, that can touch them?
Am I any kind of a poem, to a tree?