Saturday, March 5, 2011
My heart is my canoe. It treads in the flowing waters of life, lightly purled by the gild of my deepest longings. It is the maverick, dodging into the free marshes ahead and then in self forgetfulness it waits, watching me with its glittering cyclops eye. Rising above the summer wheat fields and grey muddy pastures, it roams amidst the slopes and petunia-leaves, slipping like shadows from the wing of a large eagle.
I gaze on it amazedly. It hums; it stirs; the currents flowing quietly.
My road was long; my journey rough; but I sang I loved and I wondered.
Those times when I sat in a train compartment looking at the flat fields of the countryside, steeped in the fragile glow of dusk, while the trees, rows upon rows, rushed by like raving witches in some shamanic ritual.
I would looking at the sunset blazing on gabled buildings, and force myself to feel blank. Free.