she sits upon a windowsill, a little more, a work in progress

Very much a work in progress….

She sits upon a windowsill and spies a laughing boy, about eleven, barefoot by the water’s edge beneath the tree’s green reaching hands. The canopy throws its color down and lights the shadows with reflections. Subtle ocher, umber, rose and violet rustle over every edge and surface, every fractal point and pinion.

He notes the subtle, languid colors, held within a water droplet curled within a blade of grass caught between two fingers. In his lens he rifles through the brightness, sorts the light: the red, orange, yellow from the green, blue and violet. Light everlasting, Creation’s quiet engine banks and glides through his examination, the river flowing like a dream through his attention. He’s a roving, freckled, happy sunburn, loopy, careless, and so, so fetching.

She watches from her windowsill and notes the romp and listens to the forest talk, the chittering of birds and squirrels, the sounds of things that root and snuffle. She notes the hiding place of perch and trout, beefy bullfrog, quiet mouse and sees the drop of water falling from his fingers, hears the plip! of water merging once again with water, sees the satisfying ripple of the river growing greater. At the liquid sound the animals of tree and branch, the things that root and snorkel through the grass and thatch grow quiet as the moss upon the granite.

She’s something special, also freckled, quiet as a dream of looking up through sunshine held in water. Sister to the winds she snaps her fingers and they come, the old familiars, first responders, these three edgy, banshee sisters. And she is wind in human form, the fourth wind, now a zephyr, now a storm. They sail from their oblivion, trailing dust of days and nights, shedding plastic bags and fragments of collected sounds.

The trees above the river rattle, reaching for the windy ceiling. The sisters whip the air and beat it with their silver bones. They forget where they’ve just been, they forget the rusty underpinnings where no bottom is, no edge, no roof, no ceiling. They’ve just left the place that holds the sucking sounds, the shrieking, lurching, hideous foreknowing, the wide eyed, lunatic, brokenhearted howling…


loopy, careless, and so, so fetching

This entry was posted in 'tis a gift to be simple, aan, ann bunting-mock, art, awakening, callings, electric cow, fun stuff, kids, light, love, lucid dreaming, lullabies, poetry, recovery, stories, wake up dude, works in progress. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to she sits upon a windowsill, a little more, a work in progress

  1. openhand says:

    Lyrical almost prose-poem and this photo is absolutely dear. My how he’s grown!


  2. rick mobbs says:

    he’s a joy!


  3. What a beautiful read. I love this face!


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