You talk of literal acryllic fumblings, a loss of life's work's furtive equanimity, false palms lingering remaking old winds, reconfiguring landmarks, a botanical sprawl ever altering the grip of voice on meaning, turning out spurious pallid ribbons of sighs, an offering to the breadth of chance, promising...

promising to awaken slowly these gentlest gerund jungles of choosing...

In pine-silver relief, I see the old familiar landscape from an elevated view, unobstructed by any weight of repetition, floating between the old beginning and the new, in grace of melody on evening air, as the way opens up to let us move ahead...

to think in terms of slivers of desire fitting together to make a film that first imagines the world then gathers other incarnations to itself and floods the space of possibility like a sudden perfect ocean fitting everywhere, intractable and ever moving...

To advance from house of light to house of light with only the bare rhythm of the vast untouched illusion of weather guiding is a prayer, a deep ascetic meditation on the entitlement of every life to live in a house of light...

and the breathing of a first new brushstroke of vibrance in the open air, that breathing is the only meaning...

It could be that all complex endeavor is undertaken to build a sheen across hard-fought history, that peripatetic leafstorm of chasing after chasings after the elusive final say...

where ultimately, one finds the perfect refuge in a piece of cello music, bracing one against the cool breeze and one's everything portrayed without obstructions, in pine-silver relief...

© 2002 Joseph Robertson

 

IN PINE-SILVER RELIEF
JOSEPH ROBERTSON

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