early morning lines in sand
Early Morning Lines in Sand
In a small Montana town alone I am. The breeze never flows with a greater enthusiasm than through the dust plastered and heat cracked boards in the morning. During morning walks, feeling with animal passion warming of earth, I cave in my expectations of a lonely world for beauty is all around. An organizational system of any type, not always though, intricate, is a masterpiece. Oh the intricate positionings of life, colliding and refracting, creating the future. So cold and lonely here without ‘us’.
Weaving wavy layers in rich mountain soil, left much like a bloody battle, calls my heart and expands my soul giving strength enough to fall facedown into a pool of loneliness. Walking through streets crowded with leaves and other various objects one day to be a great find for a child playing in mud, I dream up the boundaries to be broken. And hesitantly dream of those who broke them, the reasons. This gives me plenty to do but I often find myself wandering around green streets to keep the dream alive. Sessions vary in length, as much as is needed to stretch and work my muscles as my mind relaxes.
Houses appear as tombs in vacant years. Dark red stains disappear with time but thy never reappeared here to claim their life. No one comes to visit but weary travelers seeking refuge from the world. Where had they gone? Were the flames intense enough to singe memory and fearlessness, surely not. (houses still stand uncharred) Mr. Henry’s memories, Jane & Joe, Big man Larry, Henrietta and the children, Jerry and a bakery. I see all these things, though I want not, these things that forever hold me here. Most any man would have run away but the eeriness of it all has kept me here in confusion. What really happened I still cannot ascertain. With a sigh shoulders relax at the sight of the rolling hills, so out of place by this ‘town’.
Had this been a real town to begin with... well I would not be here then, should have stuck to the plan and started anew elsewhere, but to have the gnawing sensation of nothingness, returning to have my fears justified? No, that would make the feelings of personal failure even worse. Not even a day, six, seven hours, to return with supplies, slightly slower than average, in the rain. What the hell had happened in that time? What was I left with, no tracks, nothing. It was all over between us anyway but the way she looked at me, such power in her eyes, always melted away the stubbornness. No. I cannot put the blame on her for she was everything good that ever happened to me. It is my belief, has always been, that you pay for your mistakes, sometime or another. And in these last years I have suffered, alone replaying flat scenes, scratched now, frequency weakening.
Thus the trek immersed in the utter silence of honor, reverence comes to an end in no unexpected shrieking cries of the girls running back into my arms, oh it is a sad time of day this thing called morning.
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