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Among the Tufa |
In one aeon,
the sentinels
have risen up
from the salty azure waters,
and crouch, ready to spring up
along the shore. Warped,
craggy and roman-colored,
they warm underneath
the hesitant touch
of our
carefully placed fingers
as we navigate
our way through the
stately columns. Their pumice
surface bleeds us
dry of inarticulated rage,
preparing us for the silence
that descends like a twilight
upon our souls.
Nothing can
be heard, and I fear I've gone
deaf, though I can sense the
palpable beat of waves
on the shore, the brush of birds'
wings against the wind, the
weave of your jacket against
my arm. You nurse the
wintery injury on your right hand,
gone numb from a recent
impulse to satisfy your fledgling
curiousity. Our eyes meet, and I
hear the whisper of your smile
echo around us, and
I cease to be afraid.
We sit on a bench
and watch the sun hike
over the Sierras, as
the birds slice
through the air on invisible
whims. Our time for
solitude is drawing to a close,
but our peace remains
undisturbed, even as we backtrack
to your vehicle and depart
a little more wistful than we came.
copyright 2004
Marie
Lecrivain |
