To the world so mad, so splayed out and inhuman – to the world so violent with love and vision – sink deep into the mires of sullen wildness and churn out the very best syllables you have always known. Speak that dark, devastating peace that squirrels into your heart and fumble through those terrifying spirals of uncertainty that wheel you around this three-horse carousel of a planet. Devour the planet’s wanting, want for the betterment of all angels, arch your spine in a curve long enough to reach for hope, spin your fingertips around in a circle long enough to feel what you are blessed enough to touch. Touch what you are blessed enough to be touched by. Touch the world’s small, swollen heart and let it beat without fear. Let it hurry you to the edge of the wood, to the swell of the sea, to the turn of the tide, to the winter of this new day’s disintegration. To all the words waiting to be known. Have I ever written anything that wasn’t this exact sentiment? Will I ever know anything else but this plea to be free? This prayer to be awake, to be known, and to know once more that I know nothing. I want to write the world to freedom. To love, to fiery, wild harmony that bangs on piano keys and makes music in alignment with the sky’s silver architecture. I want to save the world with the truest prayer and the simplest song, but the optimism of a tiny fragile wanderer means only this and only that and never this and that.
Call out to that wild, uncouth solstice sun – that aching warm, strawberry moon and let the ice-June trill of bird calls awaken this season called summer. Let it be. Let it burst. Let it grow like old grains of harvest past wearily wandering towards this new day. This new day. This new season. This new reason to wake to the light. This new light to call out the flesh once white and weeded with winter winds. This new light to satisfy the hunger of souls gone thirsty for life. For the soft hands of leaves that reach out in the mid-afternoon sun. For the chirping tosses of water that stumble over one another in the clear crackles of streamspace. For the streamlined surrender of body to flesh of soul to spirit of new love to new love to hands of time that stand still in the sunlight. To the hands of time that stand still in the sunlight. To the golden wash of 5pm stray beams of light – longing for a new home on your shoulder. To summer. To light that wraps itself up in your hair, twirls out your spine and sends shivers through rivers. To rivers of ripples of rolicking laughter that roll themselves out on the grass. On the meadow. On the valley. On the wide spread hands of mountains and on the curved backs of cloudless skyshapes.
Call out to that timeless summer – that endless barrel of a drum that beats until the sun goes down. And then even after the light has dipped, the swell of the season still splashes against the night sky. The hollow hum of fireflies still rushes towards your leaning ear. The splicing sight of stars floating in the warm night still bounces around you. The summer days never end, they just evolve into something deeper- sweeter – more soundly: summer nights. Time ticks on unrepenting and the oligarchs of days and the regency of Tuesday, Thursday and Wednesday dissolve. No one owns these days except the sun and the strawberry moon. No one owns the season except Light itself. And love, its fearless producer.
And Fear, you have no place here. This season is for the bright blue eyes of the sky – timeless, unrelenting, and waging a war on the fire of fear.