I did not keep quiet, I did not keep the peace.
I did not do as I was told, I did not keep in the dark.
I did not stay within the lines, I did not end on time.
I did not behave, I did not hew to the sound and safe.
I did not live your life. I took what was mine.
Watch this storm with me. It rains fists of rock on this comet night, streaked red stardust falling like drops of dew on parched, dead blight, chaos closing the infinities between you and I. In the distance, the wild walls of granite sing, bringing the warmth of ancient, sagebrush nights. In the shadows, the winds whisper a message from the other side – and starlings explode like lightning from the lavender. We are all at once outside of time, no words needed between us as you look, I turn, and the bristle of our sacred flowers reminds us that the universe is one, and of one mind.
When they open, sometimes they are like light, searing revelations bathing us, purifying all who seek them.
But more often the doors to truth are cloaked in rot, ugly from both near and far. In the distance, you can try to ignore them, but like a repugnant insect on a white wall, small enough to be disregarded for a time, once seen, they are impossible to forget.
Creeping on the edge of your consciousness until you address, accept, and cross through them.
The war council was awaiting his decision.
In his chambers, he had thought for a long time. In weighing all the options before him, he had come to a surprising conclusion.
Fighting would bring disaster. So would surrender. The best option was to do nothing, and wait until their enemies were consumed by their own fire.
But this conclusion had taken days, weeks of deliberation and weighing of alternatives. The king was waiting. He could not say that he had taken all this time, to merely present a result that did…nothing.
We must wage war, he announced.
The day falls at the end of May or early June, at the start of every summer, when the warm air collides with the cool.
On this day, the wind blows ferociously, tufting the clouds and bending the trees until they bow. It is a long, constant wind, with a beginning somewhere in the countries beyond, bringing leavened scents of flowers that do not exist here.
It is a festival day when you set fires in the lull of the wind, and then watch as it starts again, sweeping the fire sideways. Everything that is thrown into the fire leaves too, ash swept far, far away from here. We do not know where the wind ends.
It is a day of clairvoyance and clarity, when the sky is empty and you can see as far as the mountains in the distance, and the gleam of towns at their foothills.
It is a day to take your old memories, the ones that are useless and stifle you, and release them to the wind – so that you can finally, finally forget.
Why do I not grow? These leaves stay small and brittle. They do not flair outwards like yours. My bark is still soft, my branches are few.
Ah, said the old tree as it bent over the sapling. Its leaves bristled against the young tree’s bark.
What you describe is not growth.
This is how you really grow. In secret, discontent, discomfort, in ways that you don’t always want to. You grow when your tendrils grow sore and strained, your young shoots get scorched in the sun. You grow under the surface, in the cold, dark, wetness. You will compete with the others for space, you will be assailed by owls and rodents.
You do not grow while thinking about growth. You look back after a long life and notice it.
These leaves? Do not envy them, for they reach their largest and brightest just before their death.
This is what the old tree said to the young sapling before it fell.
On this day years ago he stepped on the stage, armor burnished and gleaming, veins coursing with power.
He felt immortal with youth, he did not feel the weight of the armor.
He crushed his opponent, and threw off his horse. He remembers the crowd gasping at his strength, it is all seared into his brain.
For years afterwards, he has returned to this moment. Every day he reassures himself that he is still the people’s champion.
He looks at the younger knights with a critical eye, judging that their strength is lacking, that they are slow or small. Any battles he has had with them are in his mind, pitting his former self against them.
In so remembering, he has forgotten time. They still cheer his name, remembering him as the knight of old.
No one knows how much time has worn the sinews of his muscles, how it has made him bent and flaccid, with slight aches in his feet and knees in the morning.
See them cheer him on, as he enters the joust, about to ride to his death.
I am the cosmos, the cosmos inside me, I am the benevolence of history, I am the warmth and love of billions and souls, of an endless stream of mothers cuddling their babies on land and sea and stream, I am the product of violence and chaos, I am the swirling in the chaos, I am the baby and the womb, I am the silent whisper between lovers, the tilting, undulating breeze that brings memories of places never been, I am the cosmos that stretches with yearning, encompassing all within its arms, I am the planet, the stars, the bond that links every thing with everything, I am the seaside taste of home, the soft bosomed light, the miracles, the hand pushing you from beyond, the spirit who moves you from within you, the love that can only come from being open to great mystery, the gecko on the ceiling, the dim roar of distant waves, the streaking light, clairvoyance and conviction from the universe’s arms. I am. I will. I see. I will be.
Cinch the reins, calm him down,
Knot tight the bags that hold my things,
Throw the grass to test the breeze,
First gently trot to test his knees,
Borne of wind and of the wind, no regrets no memories,
No time to think, no backwards glance, no heed to rain or snow or sleet,
Frost of dawn on barren towns, diving hawk, tempest blast on fallen crowns,
Banner flies, shadow of the peregrines – as children of the wind we move to live.
I fear not the raft of styx, messenger of wrath brought quick.
I fear not the battle’s pitch, flood, famine, or pestilence,
Pale osiris, eris, nyx, demon furies, and the succubus.
Give me not nepenthe nor opiates, all they do is enervate.
My will is epic. Bitterness bestows me gruesome strength.
I fear neither death nor judgement, I fear never having lived:
A small room, a mighty chalice. The judge who points and says,
I filled your cup to overfloweth. And all you did was take a sip.