Wednesday, April 28
If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating on this sheet of paper. — Thich Nhat Hanh
Before you became a cloud, you were an ocean, roiled and murmuring like a mouth. You were the shadow of a cloud crossing over a field of tulips. You were the tears of a man who cried into a plaid handkerchief. You were a sky without a hat. Your heart puffed and flowered like sheets drying on a line.
And when you were a tree, you listened to trees and the things trees told you. You were the wind in the wheels of a red bicycle. You were the spidery Maria tattooed on the hairless arm of a boy in downtown Houston. You were the rain rolling off the waxy leaves of a magnolia tree. A lock of straw-colored hair wedged between the mottled pages of a Victor Hugo novel. A crescent of soap. A spider the color of a fingernail. The black net beneath the sea of olive trees. A skein of blue wool. A tea saucer wrapped in newspaper. An empty cracker tin. A bowl of blueberries in heavy cream. White wine in a green-stemmed glass.
And when you opened your wings to wind, across the punched-tin sky above a prison courtyard, those condemned to death and those condemned to life watched how smooth and sweet a white cloud glides.
I keep coming back to her. I adore the imagery and movement in this piece – the way you float upwards while reading, and are brought back down to life. (Currently sitting in my favorite Plaza San Fernando, soaking up the blue skies and listening to Beach House, Teen Dream.)
Posted by natalie at Wednesday, April 28, 2010