The sunflowers aren’t quite to the skeletal stage, but with the frost upon them, their flesh is rapidly melting away. The birds still come, the scrub jays, nuthatches, and finches. It’s a talkative town, but in stark, fleet moments there’s a blackening sense of the approaching end of conversation, and of new beginnings that must wait their turn in the ground.
.
If I’m discovered to be mad, what of all the sense I’ve made?
.
A quick run in the cold. Blood to the toes.
.
This cup of chamomile tea, is meditating me.
Somewhere, someone says, “Heavenly.”
.
First, do without words. Then do without doing at all. And when at last no one notices, you’re home.
.
Read the introduction to Bees and Their Keepers, by Lotte Möller (b. 23 January 1938).
“You should let them crawl over you so they learn your smell; then they’ll only sting if they get stuck,” John said.
October 29, 2023.
.
[ 1912 ]
Categories: If It Had A Name
Tags: Bare Feet, Bees, Bees and Their Keepers, Beginnings, Birds, Blood, Chamomile, Change, Conversation, Endings, Fall, Finches, Flesh, Heaven, Lotte Möller, Madness, Meditation, Nuthatches, Running, Scrub-Jays, Sunflowers, Tea, Toes, Words
William Michaelian 