I have been speaking poems through people since they first woke. Now, in stillness, I celebrate that they are learning, once again, to hear. Here is a message I sent to a friend, who some call Harold Rhenisch. He heard it last fall, but didn’t understand that it was never a poem and always a prophecy. Now he does. We’re getting there! Here’s a photo from Big Bar Lake. As I hope you can see, we’re both there, and now so are you.
1. What is this quieter version of life teaching you?
This quiet is a coming home. I can breathe.
2. We often say we wish we had more time for certain things. Having been given this gift of more time, what are you spending it on?
I am giving my human friends gardens and poems. The rest is up to them.
3. What is one surprising thing that happened today?
Nothing surprises me. Instead, there are moments of sadness and delight. I sent a kingbird to Harold’s garden. And he noticed. Beautiful!
The Messengers Another lake heaves itself up on top of its flat and flies off towards the clouds that are billowing from the cities to the south. No one has yet given a word for the holes that have appeared of late on the plateau, but considering that the men of the North have only asked the frost lines that the sun etches in the nearly dumb wind crests of the snow, the thin ones that know only a few crumbling sounds as words, there’s no firm ground for either revelations or philosophy. No matter. The true philosophers are locked inside classrooms to the south, struggling to invent birdsong out of a dry cracker, a few buttery tones and mouth harps. So far, they have plumbed only the cough and the hammer. Here, we have only the broad-winged cranes to teach us, who fly high above, shining in the sun, who would never betray the emptiness and fullness they have scoured from earth’s night. They should be lauded as philosophers, too, but the machines, the darklings with the bright eyes of noon eddies, have received them grinning from their dunes, so they fly on in long skeins to the cold North, following their broad-muscled lakes and calling for all of us below to follow them beyond the edge of the torn cloth of the world.