Night is full of mysteries. I feel them, want to share them with you, consult you so you may shed light on them. Ah, but dawn is coming. It sheds light, but then the mysteries are not illuminated, they merely vanish.Dawn blushes red now, over yonder hill. I draw back the curtain, blow out the candle: its waxy aroma hangs in the air. Looking out the window into neighbouring backyards, I see a ruin of ash, with iron frames surviving like skeletons from an ancient battle. The black cat stands in the middle, its tail waving slowly, a feline mystery, orphaned, waiting for its prime benefactors to return from their vacation. Perhaps it subsists on rats, but it doesn't look tough enough.
Ashes beget the Phoenix. And so it is with this blog.
5 comments:
"...dawn is coming. It sheds light, but then the mysteries are not illuminated, they merely vanish."
How true! I hadn't thought of it that way, but will from now on. Thanks for stopping by my site. I've often read your comments on Original Faith and liked your matter-of-factness. Now I find you're a poet, too.
Knowing what subject you're writing about, vincent, I'm more impressed than ever by your writings. Joyce said "art is where you live," and you've taken a neighborhood annoyance and turned it into that. Bravo!
Ah Marc, so you know what subject I'm writing about? Now you have me wondering. Of course I write about what happens to me. But then perhaps the bonfire is Lehman Brothers, and the black cat is Mr McCain ...
Pauline, thanks. I find a kinship with you in the marvelling at transitions - the seasons and so on. Have you wondered at the daily mystery of how day turns to night, and night turns to day?
I believe the brain works on different chemicals at night, a phenomenon which has created potent myths . . .
more accurately, what motivated your musings was clear enough, but you expand into application to many different subjects.
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