Ramona’s whisper requites us to ourselves—our fires extinguished, our thirst sated.
That voice, a pact between mountain and moisture, is a quiet call to us
The stumbling pilgrims, forest wanderers, wishful sages who suffer from acute chatter.
Its language—slow—near wordless, near nothing, paints upon the brow reminders…
Of lost talk of the ancient shape of myths, wrapped around delicate, heavy truths,
Source of our combined story.
We arrive with city hands, parched
To drink for the first time—again.
There’s a burning inside her and you can see it when she’s holding in her voice. You’re lucky she holds it in, for when it hits air, it cuts you. These cuts cause you to fall inside her furnace, scald you, sting your heart or your ego. Most of time both.
She doesn’t mean to burn. Her heart is not fire. It has leapt to save those who burn with different flames. Fires who are down to no one else except themselves.
We think this is the reason she burns. No one leaps for her. So, all she sees is our scurrying, a maze leading back to the magnetized, which we can’t admit is us.
Still, we wait for her to sing, wait to be cut, to feel the searing heat. At times we think ourselves impervious to her scorch. Other times, we find ourselves mimicking her hot language, thinking if we made it ours, she would be redeemed. Neither are true. We’re just resilient, tending to our cumulative scars as if they were a collection of special artifacts.
We fear the day she will leave. It’s never discussed. It’s an underlying nervousness, a speck of common knowledge. This causes us to run about, quicker, faster, frantic, attracted to our own end, piling up causes natural and unnatural. And this loop seems like new ground, yet feels worn, a spiral, gravity. We don’t know.
We’re no historians. We forget easily.
(Dedicated To Cat Bird.)
(Image is entitled “Dispersed”. Click on it to view it.)