by Ana Palles
I wonder sometimes if you hear me. If my carefully chosen words, touch any part of you, frozen in place, like an abandoned game world, waiting to be discovered. Intrepid visitor arriving in wonder finding overgrown weeds, and elaborate levers, gears and cranks, needing an industrious hand to reassemble. What wonders might arise if we can start the flow of life through these ancient mazes.
Did I imagine who you were while sifting through the piles of leftover autumn leaves? Did they cover tender shoots I dreamt lay deep underneath? Why can I not find them, my hands digging softly in the mud as I sit rooted on the knoll of your heart, welcoming spring’s cleansing rain?
Leafing trees whipping in the wind under powerful rumbling skies while last minute flights of black birds race for cover into stout evergreen branches. The earth drinking deeply of the falling rain quenching a thirst long suppressed. Are you down there? Waiting out the storm, in dormant silence? Will I find you if I continue clearing the decay that has lain for years slowly seeping into you?
Are you waiting until the rays of the strengthening sun coax you once more to raise your head in life and welcome your spring?
Or are you truly gone and no longer there?
Will I find nothing left, not even the bones of what you used to be? Once, long ago, when the sun shone warm inflaming dark embers in your eyes.
Or did I mistake you in a dream? The fleeting passing of a figure I only fantasized was real and warm and heartful? Or perhaps it was just an illusive shadow imitating life, the moon and stars conspiring to trickery and fanciful flights. A promise cast on an evening breeze and lost in that moonlit night, deceived me into following a fairy’s flight. And left me wandering lost, through tangled forests old, seeking what never was.
Are you truly gone or are we bewitched? Were you ever really there? Do you wish to be found, or do you want to sleep once more? Did you hope to dream or does the stillness coat your heart and soul in suspended time? I trust in Spring. In hope that life will rise and join once more in joyful dance.
The living world you hold at bay, awaiting only summer’s passing fruitfulness, exposed and laid bare. It prods for movement, July’s hot breath up against your ear. He whispers come and warms the earth around you, within you, swelling it with life, bulging and spilling fruit. For life must find a way.
Can you resist the call to rise? Are you there? Or are you truly gone?
Do you welcome my hand’s continued digging into your exile home? Or do you yearn for autumn yet to come once more? Fulfilling its silken promise of cover renewing winter’s stillness patterned in the cooling breeze.
Are you there? Will you come to life in Spring? Or are you truly gone?