We are always too late, before the worst breaks out like a midnight storm, because the secrets of the dynamics lie elsewhere beyond our clouded conscience.
Today my mother sits alone in my father’s room and breaks down for answers unlike the scattered shadows of the morning light that stretches slowly into night when the birds are back into the nests like answers to the daylong cries of their fledglings.
We look deep into nature to understand everything but the meanings and the words are still our own; they draw us back into our narrow selves till all the golden mornings of life turn into the russet haze of the last evening.
It’s all what the leaves of the earth rustle about.
A blade of grass in the graveyard cuts the elusive wind which opens no secrets of its destination,
nor the distances beyond the known the eye of a flower soars, nor of its fading smile.
When the aging horses of the human blood pace the time, meanings disappear in the clouds of dust like their voices in the hoof beats.
When a tribal girl aborts to save the guilt of some men who feed her, and when a faith calls her an adulteress, can one still offer his cheek for another slap?
Today it’s calcium carbide that ripens the fruits and wax that glistens them and life’s ant-line searches on the hidden meanings