Hot spring, no light, no sound. I want to be suspended in warm waters, birthed into a blackness punctured only by million year old light and a quiet of the earth breathing, slowly soughing. Worms and beetles will munch leaves and grass below us and when we are tired of looking into the world as it was when it all began, we will turn over and watch the patch of earth between us. In the gloaming, we will read Wordsworth, Tennyson, Neruda and Oliver. We’ll sleep until the birds wake us and have oatmeal and raisins and nuts. We will not catch fish. We’ll eat with our hands and drink tea with sage honey.
We will walk, hands behind our backs, hand in hand, look, Ma, no hands, no direction declared or known, though we’ll mark our passage with crumbs and hope to miss the witch that lives in all wood and the warlock that enchants any stream. Sometimes we’ll sing off or on key, sometimes we’ll howl, the pain of a lifetime, sometimes cry the joy of our species. We’ll sit quietly and look into each other’s eyes and see what we may find and occasionally we’ll ride on the other’s dream and cast our fortune to the wind and watch the great world spin.
We will immerse ourselves daily in the healing waters, hourly if need be; if need be until we are pruned and the remedy begins to take. Let’s heap our healing on healing and remember what solace there is in solitude, together and what pleasure in togetherness alone, out where the coyote howl, the blue moon rises and we sleep the dream of our being.
New York, NY