a small heaven

the song the leaves sing after all songs are done singing ; the words they whisper through the water ; the leaves lay gliding on top :: sunbathing ; or cascading around in the small cool rays of autumn // the lily pads flinching as they hold sweet visitors :: the soft new residents of the surface of the water ; the hues you would not believe ;; the tarnished brown; the gently burnt gold; this viridian; this sublime orange, that swings gently down off the tree; a sliding more gentle than you can imagine;; I could describe it to you –– but having never seen it yourself, it might only seem like a replica of a photo ; or a memory of a film reel ; instead of the endless opening towards a small heaven that it is

crimson, orange + lemon yellow

radiant day + lamplight afternoon, the silent wishes of a thousand leaves playing in harmony with the light — the gentle wish of autumn, to carry itself through every bending branch — to transform the formed, to resonate inside the cellular singular singing voices of the grass, the grain, the hurried rain — the fumbled moments that sit outside of your brain — the lenses that tap at the glass of your eyes, that ask to come in, that do not bring anything with them but air and gold — the streaks of summer sliding out of the spines of green — the cascading hues all across the landscape — circumnavigating the residual blues and violets and sinking in to all that crimson, orange + lemon yellow — yellow as far as the eye can see, the splendor of falling in to color over and over again, the palette of your heart just a beating thing, a fearless wing of a season turning over and over — reclaiming the word change, reclaiming the world the continues to change, whether we fall with it or not


i am happiest when i remember the illusion of time; the way that everything still exists in some section of the cosmic microwave background, in a small parcel of poetic cells that reverberate like mirrors;; the way our small brains believe we are on a set of tracks heading forward — when i remember the illusion of time there is no space for regret, or mis-step, or mistake,, life, such an uneven dreamscape, the Dreaming, an ever present landscape we wander; the wakefulness of consciousness casting itself like a shadow over a mass of changing landforms ;; my heart, a few strings and wires tying me to everything — the fundamental strangeness of mind we can never define ;; i feel no fear, thinking about the edge of the universe where all our everythings lie, the plurality of universes laying on one another like a well-placed stack of children’s blocks – this timeline, a strange reverie trying to wake a sleeping giant, perhaps;; a tune singing some mythic gods to sleep ;; events like a never ending clap, an applause set in motion , always an audience to the illusion of what we are shown on the stage, what waits in the wings, and what the whole fucking theatre is — and the everything, all around the edges of the building, as far as the cosmic microwave background; the never-ending setpiece