Desolate and Perfect Now Desolate and Perfect Now There's something about the Earth when it no longer speaks, something about an immobile, gray everything— even the wind carved in stone, river mist like dreams of Vesuvius, calm that doesn't wait for the sun, quiet oozing like snakes from the wet branches: This is either cast-iron despair or peace, while within gleams a prism of varying shades of hope. It's a counterfeit joy, but it's enough, so I'll take the delicate violence of solitude, the phantom chains of stillness, the soundless opera, tragic and opulent, the symphonic tomb, the sacrament of ice, the tiniest parts of God— each one the cosmos. I'll take Now because it is everlasting and all possibilities and all we need and every world right here. Patricia Joan Jones © patriciajj1 - all rights reserved. |
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