Prose becomes poetry in my thoughts that mingle with the smoke rising from rain tired clouds. They rained all day, all night and finally, there is the “phew, I am done” in the whiffs rising above them, freed of water drops from their blue and grey masters.
The sky is trying to resolutely break out, a bright blue, reassuring the trees it will bring the sun tomorrow. Who knows? The sun is no one’s slave. Not even theirs who dare to break through rock to grow.
But I do see the sun on a distant village. Determined to shed it’s golden light on one specific point across the mountains. Almost like a geometrical angle drawn with compasses long forgotten in the schoolroom giggles of hardy desks scratched out with love names, more than a decade ago.
The pain of beautiful landscapes is experiencing them with no one to share . That’s also how you experience them and anything else most keenly. Because after all we are born in swarms such as the rain clouds and we drift away, over one hill or the other.
Hill folk say the houses have been washed clean, the tin roofs shine like shiny new shoes on the first day of preschool, grins plastered in the reflection on shoe polish.
I have tried to capture these moments in my words, in my camera to show you when I meet you. And I find myself looking forlornly onto roads cut through, almost teasingly, into the forest. I don’t know when you will walk this road. I don’t know if you have ever walked this road. I hope you haven’t. But then again, I hope you have. So we may tread these paths, now wet with too much waiting, and leave our squelching shoeprints behind. Even if for just a brief posterity.
There is too much going on in the world. There is too little I am able to breathe. Do I spend these evenings watching the brilliant patters of the bugs and beetles crawling on my window? Or do I suit up my mind with theories that are embellished and impress all, like a chandelier in a ballroom? I know not.
Prose becomes poetry in my mind. Much like the hint of a cheese grater in your deep voice, the warm moist palms I have held against the dry callouses on them, the ribbons of white cloud that remind me of your hair. Much like them, prose turns to poetry when I think of you. And yet, I know not you, only an idea of you that I see in the shadow of a mountain on the cloud below. Prose becomes poetry.
The sky is trying to resolutely break out, a bright blue, reassuring the trees it will bring the sun tomorrow. Who knows? The sun is no one’s slave. Not even theirs who dare to break through rock to grow.
But I do see the sun on a distant village. Determined to shed it’s golden light on one specific point across the mountains. Almost like a geometrical angle drawn with compasses long forgotten in the schoolroom giggles of hardy desks scratched out with love names, more than a decade ago.
The pain of beautiful landscapes is experiencing them with no one to share . That’s also how you experience them and anything else most keenly. Because after all we are born in swarms such as the rain clouds and we drift away, over one hill or the other.
Hill folk say the houses have been washed clean, the tin roofs shine like shiny new shoes on the first day of preschool, grins plastered in the reflection on shoe polish.
I have tried to capture these moments in my words, in my camera to show you when I meet you. And I find myself looking forlornly onto roads cut through, almost teasingly, into the forest. I don’t know when you will walk this road. I don’t know if you have ever walked this road. I hope you haven’t. But then again, I hope you have. So we may tread these paths, now wet with too much waiting, and leave our squelching shoeprints behind. Even if for just a brief posterity.
There is too much going on in the world. There is too little I am able to breathe. Do I spend these evenings watching the brilliant patters of the bugs and beetles crawling on my window? Or do I suit up my mind with theories that are embellished and impress all, like a chandelier in a ballroom? I know not.
Prose becomes poetry in my mind. Much like the hint of a cheese grater in your deep voice, the warm moist palms I have held against the dry callouses on them, the ribbons of white cloud that remind me of your hair. Much like them, prose turns to poetry when I think of you. And yet, I know not you, only an idea of you that I see in the shadow of a mountain on the cloud below. Prose becomes poetry.
