Eruption

This unfillable cistern finally gives way to a rivered life. I can stop running. I can stop chasing.

Again with the Japanese death poems.
Again with Clavell's saga.
Both have me on my knees.

Grass greens between my toes and violets erupt in royal dignity. Enough time has passed whereby the thing which cannot be created nor destroyed is laid bare, without distraction or doubt. And to recognize this thing . . . what does it matter, truly?

Rain thrums before daylight but the bird chorus still rises. White-throated sparrows – jays – tufted titmouse – cardinals – each day new merger and mix. Train moans in a minor key dollop the score like a delicious sin. Like most deviations from nature, the sound distracts from what is pure, yet like most human proclivities, it is not entirely unwelcome. Either way, the train fades to the West leaving only the sound of throated tributes to living. Live and sing about it.

Suddenly there are enough leaves to murmur and sigh in the breeze. Squirrels and orioles nest and in all this activity, it's getting more difficult to go to work. Everything is erupting: war, genocide, volcanoes, tornadoes, squirrels and chipmunks, purple tulips, kale sprouts and me. I am erupting.

New friends arrive but old friends are confused and hurt. I've changed or grown or simply disassembled a mantle I wasn't meant to wear. Kyle hangs on and opts to evolve a bit. I am satisfied because I do not need him to match or be like me. I need him to watch in awe as I encompass and become the Cosmos. He's watching and smiling.

Are you?