into the well
first, a pile of fresh cut flowers. pink and purple, blue and pale yellow, tossed into the well. floating happily, flavoring the water with high summer and wishes on stars.
then, a little girl rolling on the grass, clutching her feet above her head, laughing so hard there is nothing anyone can do but stop and listen and smile and laugh too and wish we could remember whether we have ever laughed that hard. we wonder whether she would laugh with us if we were to get down on the ground too, roll ourselves up like happy children and remember how to laugh.
then, tall gangly trees with children on every branch, perched, dangling, swinging, gazing. every branch happy with children, every child in exactly the right place.
then, walking barefoot down the dirt road. it is summer and the bees are buzzing, the birds are winging. it is summer and your feet are dusty dirty, full of miles. it is summer and the road doesn't end, not ever, but there are friendly houses with friendly people, and friendly sitting stumps and friendly crickling creeks and it is summer and honey is everywhere like sunshine on your skin.
it is a fort made of blankets and pillows. grown-up book read by flashlight, dinner is cooking, you can smell it's nearly ready, something warm and good, and you are hungry for it but not too hungry and you never doubt there is enough.
it is moss grows on the north side, the river is to your left. that is cassiopeia, that is milky way. it is waiting for the bats and plump little newts plopping on your tent at dawn. it is grand canyon looking like a postcard and the four corners being a sign. north south east west. if they'd remembered to think about above, below, center, there would have been a different kind of magic. towering rocks, lovers kissing, camel back, pikes peak, ranger's house where i was made. ten fingers, ten toes, flurry of light around my head so bright cats always stop to stare. the rocks are warm to the touch and underneath are so many crawlers we stop for a spell to listen and thank the good dark earth.
you sent me a poem through the air, line by line, until i knew what you meant, but the language was lost on my young, young ears.
(freewrite: images in the well: 19 minutes)
then, a little girl rolling on the grass, clutching her feet above her head, laughing so hard there is nothing anyone can do but stop and listen and smile and laugh too and wish we could remember whether we have ever laughed that hard. we wonder whether she would laugh with us if we were to get down on the ground too, roll ourselves up like happy children and remember how to laugh.
then, tall gangly trees with children on every branch, perched, dangling, swinging, gazing. every branch happy with children, every child in exactly the right place.
then, walking barefoot down the dirt road. it is summer and the bees are buzzing, the birds are winging. it is summer and your feet are dusty dirty, full of miles. it is summer and the road doesn't end, not ever, but there are friendly houses with friendly people, and friendly sitting stumps and friendly crickling creeks and it is summer and honey is everywhere like sunshine on your skin.
it is a fort made of blankets and pillows. grown-up book read by flashlight, dinner is cooking, you can smell it's nearly ready, something warm and good, and you are hungry for it but not too hungry and you never doubt there is enough.
it is moss grows on the north side, the river is to your left. that is cassiopeia, that is milky way. it is waiting for the bats and plump little newts plopping on your tent at dawn. it is grand canyon looking like a postcard and the four corners being a sign. north south east west. if they'd remembered to think about above, below, center, there would have been a different kind of magic. towering rocks, lovers kissing, camel back, pikes peak, ranger's house where i was made. ten fingers, ten toes, flurry of light around my head so bright cats always stop to stare. the rocks are warm to the touch and underneath are so many crawlers we stop for a spell to listen and thank the good dark earth.
you sent me a poem through the air, line by line, until i knew what you meant, but the language was lost on my young, young ears.
(freewrite: images in the well: 19 minutes)
posted by ella at 10:33 AM
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