2020-04-25 05:00:08 +00:00
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<title>Zk | 008</title>
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<h1>Zk | 008</h1>
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<article class="content">
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<hr />
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<p>date: 2019-08-25
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weight: 46</p>
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<hr />
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<p><img alt="Growth" src="/growth.jpg" style="width: 100%; max-height: 100%" /></p>
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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<p><small>“Growth” by <a href="https://www.patreon.com/Cadmiumtea">Julian Norwood</a></small></p>
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2020-04-25 05:00:08 +00:00
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<hr />
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<div class="verse">Used to be you and I daily would walk
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through the fields out back of the house and talk
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for hours, spilling words and emotions.
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These walks were our daily devotions
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to each other over the years.
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The fields, dotted with ponds, were our space.
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We tramped those trails strung like lace
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along shores and through tall grass,
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murmuring now like winds, chattering now like brass
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in some changeful duet.
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You'd tell me about the geese in the sky,
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would watch me stand still and not ask why
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the birds scared me to pieces,
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even as we dodged around their feces
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littering the trails.
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You'd put up with my fickle interests,
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running with me, or stopping to see what arrests
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my attention. You'd follow all of my changes
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and change along with me through all the ranges
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of our shared experience.
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You'd tell me of your meditation,
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I'd talk of my fears of stagnation.
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You'd always smile so kindly to me,
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and I'd always feel so free
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in our companionship.
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And over time, those walks got slower,
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shorter, less frequent, or over
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far too soon, though no less meaningful
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as we spent our time together in cheerful
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conversation or kind quiet.
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We each seemed to be going our separate ways,
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with me branching out, exploring different lays
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of different lands, and you turning inwards,
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exploring lines of thought you never put in words,
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at least not that you told me.
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And then one day, we once more went out walking
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and though it took a while, you got to talking.
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You told me of how you sat, quiet and alone,
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waiting for the time you might turn to stone
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and be completely still at last.
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You told me how as you sat, the room lengthened,
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curved around, turned on you — strengthened,
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it seemed, by your very presence —
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and amid all of that gathered pleasance,
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bit you in half.
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You told me how, as part of you died
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in that moment, the rest of you spied,
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it seemed, on this very ending.
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You told me you thought that this rending
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was the end of something big.
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I listened in silence. What could I say?
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The things you were telling me, walking that day
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were strangely shaped and didn't make sense.
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Or if they did, they did so around corners as pretense,
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perhaps, subtext, allusion, metaphor.
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You were right, though, I could hear it in your voice.
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There was finality, there, which spoke of a choice
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already made. Endings were writ on your face,
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your hands, and your steps — your very pace
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spoke of completion.
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I replied to that sense rather than your words.
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"While you look up to the geese and see only birds,
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I see omens and my doom spelled in vees.
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You speak of rooms and cleaving, but please,
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tell me, are you leaving?"
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We'd long since stopped, there by the pond,
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and your smile was, yes, sad, but still fond
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as you settled down wordlessly to your knees,
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took a slow breath, looked out to the trees,
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and closed your eyes.
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Beginnings are such delicate times
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and I very nearly missed it, no chimes
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to announce the hour of your leaving.
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As it was, there was no time for believing
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or not in the next moments.
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Your fingers crawled beneath the soil
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and sprouted roots, flesh starting to roil.
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Coarse bark spiraled up your wrists and arms,
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Spelling subtle incantations and charms
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to the chaos of growth.
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You bowed your head and from your crown
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sprouted a tender shoot covered in fine down,
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soon followed by crenelated leaves and fine stems.
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The pace was fast, implacable, and leaves like gems
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soon arched skyward.
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You sprouted and grew, taking root
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in one smooth motion, fixed and mute.
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Your clothing fell away, rotting in fast-time.
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Naked now, you sat still, committing one last crime
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of indecency.
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Your face, your face! In your face was such peace
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as I'd never seen, even as you gave up this lease
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on life, echoed also in my heart of hearts.
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I did not cry out, nor even speak, witnessing such arts
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as your final display showed.
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Soon, you were consumed, transformed as a whole.
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Your head a crown of leaves, your heart a bole
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bored in rough bark and sturdy wood,
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your fingers, knees, and toes stood
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as thirsty roots.
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I stood a while by the tree that was you,
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then sat at your roots and thought of all I knew
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about time, transformation, death and change.
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I thought about you, your life, your emotional range,
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your gentle apotheosis.
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Then I walked home, quiet and numb.
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No, not numb, per se, but perhaps dumb.
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Dumb of words, dumb of emotions. Quiet.
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I expected turmoil, some internal riot,
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I got nullity.
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Who, after all, if I cried out,
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would hear my wordless shout
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among the still trees and rustling leaves?
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Who hears? Who cares? Who perceives
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this non-grief?
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You, my friend, are still there.
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I walk the fields every day, passing where
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you changed into something new.
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I marvel at you, at how you grew
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into something wholly different.
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Used to be you and I daily would walk
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through the fields out back of the house and talk.
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Now, it's just me, alone, quiet, thinking
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of you by the shore, forever drinking
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of sweet water.</div>
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<p><a class="pulse" href="/aside/dreams/2">From a dream.</a></p>
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</article>
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<footer>
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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<p>Page generated on 2020-06-24</p>
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2020-04-25 05:00:08 +00:00
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2020-06-24 07:15:07 +00:00
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