Fragments

2012 ,May 21

Tel Aviv

Morning

I love the names of things which curl out from our tongues, pinching between our lips and teeth to pierce the echoless void between those we love and those we don't understand.

I love the epitome of recycling one's effort over the course of a storm.  We reuse the drops of rain, sloshed down in buckets over tin roofs and lightning rods jitterbugging in the dark, to bathe a new flower alive into sunshine.

I love the rebound call of infinite spring, awake at last from nighttime and a thousand miles away from home.

I love the crystalline look of a pale face, eyes staring out from behind black-rimmed glasses, topped with a crop of chestnut hair.

 "Half awake and half asleep," he said, no more knocking on the door of pleasure and expecting nothing in return.  A flock of doves rushed in on a breath of air, too cold for San Francisco in springtime.

Words are never forgotten once they are spoken; they hide in crevices of comfort before having a strange effect on the mind of the observer, as though they carry meaning beyond the brave candle flames which light the pathways of our own thought patterns.  Words edge up your skin like the blade of a knife, enticing soul memories out of their jars like flowers by your bedside, so you can smell your own fragrance as you drift off to sleep and awaken refreshed.

Light is a flight which never mastered the use of gravity. 

This rhythm is not mine, but a wreath on a door where people know they can enter the mystery by knocking three times and waiting to hear what is inside to receive them.