Recording/Re-Playing/Recording/Re-Playing

The farm and the porch light hums the sound of another orange dawn. Burnt up – crisp aching new reaches of the imagination turn from corn to wheat to the pungent shade of dried blood on hands – kissing corners of a mouth never kissed. Sweeping ‘cross in whispers two thousand years and more, come words on the flat-line horizon, dripping sideways, like a red cat's eye marble on a circular seesaw that knows no bounds; rolling infinitely back and forth - ringing through ears that were once in that ago (can you hear it?) hearing the coming of a storm being heard by another set of ears, in some other when – some other marble. When, speaks the unspoken. When, treads where none may tread. When, grips the barren outcroppings of space – playing the unending moments – where no other question hence forth can grip. Night sounds come in floods of mauve, and quiet apricot; slicing through oceans, unsung, where no ears hear. The farm: echoing, lowing and fawning – Trying to stay true to form, bleeds into the fibers of a dream once lived – recognizing its existence through the act of a moment, lived. The girl turns to face the enormity of all she has yet to hear upon the brazen, blazing horizon; she strips down to goose bumps on the skin that God gave her; opening her mouth to hear all that she is – breathing in the dawn as it breaks. The farm notes this coming. The sky knows; The wind knows. The earth knows - relaxing at her feet exhaling through her soles, resounding through the mouth of the un-kissed, breathing through this land; humming through porch lights, spinning through atoms, sifting though heavens, recorded through lifetimes, and through into another’s open mouth. © Kristin Reynolds 1/9/09