blood drips from an unmoving finger into the clear creek
Blood Creek [Haiku]
9

soft petals,
tumbling & swirling
in a light breeze
The pond that was mirror clear in March is obscured by a thousand April flowers. Tiny yellow flowers standing on stiff stalks. The crisscross bands that stabilize the base of each flower somehow make the water look more viscous -- like clear syrup or polished glass. These pale proto-leaves, more root than leaf, float just below the surface. Somehow, these unstable structures hold tightly -- testament to the pond's tranquility. yellow flowers bloom from a clear pond as if from glass
I Where is my shadow? I look behind me & see that it's ill-formed & indistinct. And I wonder whether it's the quality of the light, or the quality of the me. II I read that Oraon shamans study people's shadows. Fat-shadowed people are said to be ill-tempered, stubborn, & domineering [but not necessarily fat-bodied.] III I heard tell of a master of shadows. It might not seem like much of an object of mastery -- shadows being intangible, but he always knew which way he was going and where the world sat at the moment. [And that's more than can be said of the rest of us.] It was a simple skill that most could not be bothered to practice. Everyone else's inability to find value in those dark angular patches was his gain.
In the ecstatic madness sits a different kind of bliss so untethered that you drift far from the familiar. There is no cord unwinding to snap you into place, and you may float into and out of your original face. And when one stands screaming, unwilling to be shooshed - naked as a J-bird - immune to being rushed, you may find a freedom that would terrify the rest: the homeless kind of freedom of the sanity dispossessed.