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Below the stars, crickets chirp. Lower than the last line, there is life, yet it bears no heed to our thoughts. Leprechauns hold secret rainbows and pots of leaves rather than gold coins. The coin prefers a branch to lean on and snowflakes hear no evil. The wind knows all, yet it does not care. And red hurts—I know for I live.
The mouse in the corner sings his song as he plays the banjo. Only he is happy. The boards squeak to sounds unheard by man or woman, but the child hears. Candy licks the child’s face and makes her smile.
The sound of music mutes all earthly voices. Violins lean in the wind and know pain. Delphiniums see blue delft plates which dance inside the window. Do not lean out too far for it is adagio to the stars. They snatch in the night and carry him away. And I am sad. I try to hide the mushroom by eating it, but the poet sees me and tells his story. I fly away as far as I can go but laughter evades and events unwind, slithering down the hill in shades of green.
Zinnias have no care nor laughter, only petals of roughness in shades of autumn. Puppies do not lie. Their ears tell of love and north knows east, but south fears north. And west has no home. And I am there somewhere, in between black and purple. My fingers feel fairies and fruits and Fuji mums and juicy fruit candies, but my tongue is on vacation. The clown frowns and wrinkles his suit crying, “Amen to old.”
I need a window. A blue window will do. Or yellow, perhaps better to heal what remains of the remnant of the child. A window tells all, yet can fool and conceal. It hides. It reveals. It fogs. It glistens. It breathes the world beyond to us. I want to see flowers surrounded by peace. I want ladders of compassion, hankies of hugs with perfumed drops of love.
There in that corner hides a bench. Upon the bench a child cradles her doll, the doll so old with love, no longer has a face, at least to others who behold it. But the One above beholds her face and that of the child and knows what lies in the heart. He sees no face, skin color, eye color, nose shape. He sees only the shape of the soul, its veil, its velvet scarf.
Blue velvet hands caress. Red satin wraps my heart and leads me to the window and birds beckon in the distance. I hear them through the window. I see only the child. I push all others away. And I search for her pain, but it eludes. I run for it, tear the books from her bag, and she ignores me. She is happy. And I wonder if the child in me is healed. Does she sit on a bench in a garden happy to hug her doll?
Lord, she loved you always. So, so young, she loved you, not by anything she did, but through her mother’s window of love, arms of grace, pains of glass. And she loved you throughout life until you took him. And why does all I do lead to him? And why do I ask why? And where is the window I need? Seek?
What do you want me to do, to see, to believe. This window is black. I cannot see. It fills to the brim with self , but it is and I am and blood dies. It meanders through the trees, like a flute’s woody voice in the days of old.
Feathers touch my cheek and I belong to its past. The sky lays its blanket and anoints the rain. The ground trembles from its power. Zigzags, squares and circles embellish the blanket in ambers, umbers and aquamarines. Stones of sight and ferns of hearing sway to the flute’s melody.
Suddenly, the fox fixes his brazen eyes on a prey and gold swirls forth in ribboned tongues and captures the small animal. But the snake lurks and waits to pounce and eat the mouse first. A battle ensues. No one wins, but the flute. Its sighs are heard throughout the land.
A man kneels to pick a violet for his bride, a bouquet for the one he loves. Violet Eyes returns his love. The fur of the fox covers his chest, and eyes black as coal, squint in the cold as he pushes ahead in the snow toward his beloved. He sees clouds shaped like pipes of peace above him and he is encouraged.
Spring lies caged like an animal this Year of the Snowflake. Thoughts drum in his head with plans and hopes in dreams of life. Feet frozen from days of walking the mountain, he battles sleep as the White Angel sits on his shoulder, ready to escort him to the clouds. His breath ices his face forming crystals of death.
Far away within a wigwam, Violet Eyes warms her hands by the fire. She sees a dying man in its flames and the flute ends its tune.
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