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Post by Thoithoi O'Cottage on Sept 5, 2017 12:29:44 GMT 5.5
So you go on like history blasé about the obsidian past black as your eyes (set in a face crumpled from lack of sleep) that, amid that sleepy creaky voice, looked up from my “uncomfortable” arms at my sleepless eyes from behind those wispy locks tousled from rolling in the hay we had just collected from the sun, the season’s last, that turned out a life’s. And I will say the past is like your hair— it’s dark and lost behind the absent wall, though I often turn every speck of its dust in the sunless time to scratch back up the stains of my soul spilled all over at a stumble—so ungraceful you’d wonder how God makes things so slack!
I go on—a berry picker (when not dusting dusty memory), a slow one, who loves berries like the last thing left all in the world too far and vast for tired eyes, I am on my hands and knees in the soil caring not to break the groping stems or let the red-flesh fruits slip off my crinkled hands with broad blunt fingers or the basket when my used eyes comb through the cold netty crouch of the lacy stems and the serrate velvet leaves scratching the black tightened soil that smells rawish sweet under the green and yellow coiffure, to look for spotty lady-bugs in meditation and lovebugs set in bliss in the green and semi-transparent worms measuring green miles, while seeing the season breathing itself out, and I would know I’ll have to prepare the land for the next season— carrot in the mulch, sunflowers in waves. Seasons go on and on like history that has nothing to do with the past.
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