Here is Always Itself

The lamp burns against the evening air while the sun melts against the sky. All life is hidden, but for the creaks of restless trees. Inside their blossoms boil toward the surface, waiting, restlessly, to burst forth from the silence. A silence that freezes time. Birds slowly head north to find their homes again. Nests that lay vacant and broken all winter will be rebuilt. The world will find itself aglow once again.

When the stillness has ended all manner of life will explode from their hiding places. Green will accent the landscape; this once hollow place. Like a tailor the winds will be at work sowing time around the trees and fields that life might clothe them again. In that moment we will all smile as the day grows long again and the warmth tickles our uncovered feet. We will lay our lives in the yard to watch the clouds and stars swing across the heavens. Our hammocks will cling to adjacent trees as we soar across the air immersed in stories we have never read.

That, however, is not now. That time is one of active and visible life, but here is always itself, and for its time it is shrouded in silence.

*Journal Entry from 3-5-11


About Jeremiah Dowling

I write poetry and take crazy pictures in an Orange Chair all over the United States while reading amazing books.

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