Hushed & Slowly Coming To

She feels her feet beneath her, but
lilting above the return,
still in the clouds' own landscape,
soft, so soft.
Below, the steady flare & flash of duty,
normalcy, usual, routine,
but dulled, still,
by the veil of transition, a mere whisper denied by the thrilling
melody of memory, impression,
sound, fantasy, all at once &
everywhere. Experience flows through her,
a clear pure outpouring,
cascades without shape but cool,
passing one hand to the other,
circling again, resounding, drowning out the summons,
rinsing off (for a rare few moments more)
the palms and voices pulling her down,
seeking her. Far away is she, yet,
where the road loops & loops again,
the hedges caping every turn, throwing
leafy promises, glistening with
the past, the present, and the imagined.
Away she is, where accents transport her
inward, backward, & call forth
someone inside who has been waiting. The stories can't be told while she is still listening within.
Her heart beats, breaks, bursts,
then again, too full, so fine, fervent with response, and she can only yearn to who and where she was
until her voice returns.


[all photos mine, taken at Chatsworth, Monday, July 6, 2009]