DO NOT MOW

Hello, I am a seeker of mystery.

and

mysteries

are perturbing. 

Always pushy, ill fitting pieces of worldview; mysteries turn skin and fill my stomach like thousands of ball bearings jostling for space ’til I burp.

Mysteries are a creeping dread. An intimate knowing that tonight I will sleep forever. Be dragged against my will to another time and place beyond my comprehension. My everything turning to dust… 

The first fear.

IT DEFIES ALL KNOWING THAT I WAKE TOMORROW

A soft bed. A sun dappled meadow that I try to lovingly call myself.

And having not learned my lesson. I embrace that fear like an old companion. And I asked what adventures we’ll go on today. Because next to that primal dread.

The tightening–clamping–inside of my skin…

Because no one lives alone. We all know what’s in the basement. The closets. Under the bed. And just because I don’t want to see the beings that sleep in the shadows of my house’s corners doesn’t make them not there.

So what other choice do I have?

Nod respectfully to every black cat that crosses your path.

Nod respectfully to those moments that interest and bisect in ways no one can truly answer or explain.

Even our sharpest microscopes cannot pierce that final viel. The same piece of silk rubbing against itself. The sensual embrace of hubris and absurdity.

We build bombs to challenge the holy one! Are blessed are they?

We fly planes into heaven. Faster! And better than our enemies! Yet, it is our own soil we exterminate. 

A metaphorical and literal cutting of our roots. Each plane monument to a greatness so bright it starts wildfires. 

.

.

.

dragged against their will to another time and place beyond their comprehension. Their everything turning to ash…

Because even stones dream.

And I pray that one day that ash is healthy soil into a tree towering into the heavens. A home for multitudes, all of whom carry the feeling of what happened here.

Because that stone was a mountain. Then a boulder. Then my countertop.

Just as we came through vegetation, and dirt, and lesser rocks in order to get my countertop; so too will a fire come for me. 

Through the angles and corners that bisect and intersect in ways no one can answer. Through the village of my house’s shadows where it stops for tea and scones.

For purposes as unknowable to me as being a countertop is to a mountain.

And just because it scares me, doesn’t make it not so.