Em placed the note down and quietly tip-toed to her side of the bed. Pulling back the covers, she discovered, neatly tucked partly under her pillow, an envelope. Quickly she opened it:
You once asked, How shall I read? I've never known how to answer until this night and fearing not how to say what I know to be said, I have retreated to this note.
Watch the movement of nib on parchment. Listen to it as if vellum were flesh and each stroke a whip upon word. But watch loop and line, each syllable coming of life as the ticking clock ticks our hearts into breath. Watch the flicker of candle casting warm glow and the dipping of gold into the well, drinking the pool from nothingness into something. And here, upon this scene, this mystery of creation, of empyreal quill giving life beyond once it had and the mind turning, as the ticking, as if a great relief were excised, as if the spilling of ink were a letting of blood and upon the lamb were scored the very words divine. Then take this turning and hold forth thy diction to the window, to the pace of twilight before the consumption of wood and the first shivering draught of night.
Love,
Trev
Em sighed, placing the note back into the envelope, closing it with a kiss. As the note, her legs slipped into the opening of the sheets and found their place in the bent of his knee, her arm riding the slow rising of his sleeping torso and there, upon the nape she did breathe the two of them into, as he said, the draught of the night.
4 comments:
Beauty such that it brings tears to my eyes, so many emotions and thoughts in their wetness, of a thousand moments between these two, of the history, not just theirs, but every word upon these pages. There are moments in the days and months and years of our lives, where we may look upon the face of another, something may be said, something done, something seen, something heard, moments where the majesty of love or life or nature steals the breath, quickens the heart, fills the soul, such moments are treasured, remembered, such moments change us, plant us, anchor us, make us feel closer in every way, connected, present, joyous and peaceful and appreciative, heightened. Those moments, those moments where the purest pleasure, the purest sense of awe and appreciation for creation, for beauty, of a soul, for the depth of a heart and all that it can carry, for the music and dance, rise, dips, turns, for the excitement, the suppleness, the magnetism of the written word. Pictures painted more panoramic than they could ever see in a glance. Those moments that seem to incorporate all of life, that capture in the moment every thing that makes us who we are, that show us and touch us, the infinite, the unaldulterated, the consummate quality of beauty, of life, of emotion, of love, of art, of creation, so pure to try and capture such a thing in words is a task, I fall far short of accomplishing. Such moments, the moments that come to us in looks, in words, in the days and years, such moments, such blessed gifts that usually we know not where and when we might find, everyone who knows your writing knows there is a bottomless well behind this url. When I am not sinking my bucket, pulling it to me, holding it above my head and letting myself feel the cool water upon every strand, every inch, every nerve..well, to put it simply, to end the spieiling rather, in allowing the winds to dry, the point, of everything, must have been lost. Breath taken, heart captured, therein is an example of language, these most precious of gifts.
Every word, I see typed, falling as petals from a heart I can hear through the breeze between oats, can see in the morning light, can know in the gentle curves of treeless hills and dales, from eye to lip, from forehead to chin, the sweep of, wisp perhaps, of wayward hair, of that which braids my fingers in sighs, in nights consumed as fire to oxygen. The force, this force of nouns and verbs, of contours rising and falling, of fingers held, laced, combed of the day, these agents of eyes full, wide, unblinking upon the head held, the lips taken softly, of ears hung with thumbs, of necks traced in the light of shadows. Sigh.
I can't hardly bare it, can't hardly read, not words, these words, this charactry, but all that lies with each finger placed, pushed, typed, I imagine, in a quiet moment stolen as dawn sleeps and the house has yet to warm to hungry feet and tongues full of silent regret, of eyes that hold too much pain and hands lost in what to do, I imagine the cotton upon your shoulders, the hair too, and the compassion of eyes that give and give and give, that drain themselves dry in the orbit of family, of family come to you, to life, to circle your love.
How can I bear such a force?
Yours truly, a mute witness of
Trée, and Autumn, and Trée.
to be witnessed, silently--thank you Constance
To Autumn:
There is upon this night,
to another, a dawning
and as upon my windowed twilight
I imagine, panes mauving
so I sit upon leathered wood
and creak in my musings
of another chair warm
too, of flesh longing
There is upon this autumn night
fingers perched on my lips
elbows on my desk
and eyes staring into the screen
into and beyond the light
past the shores
and the ocean
to a small town
a warm bed
to the soft tresses
splayed upon cotton
to dreams of stone
and wood
of sand and water
and two cups
to bear witness
of lips spoken
without
words
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