Snowflake dust dots my windshield
Like immigrants from another world
Trickling in through escape hatches
Of dark brooding clouds.
Some trees still cling to their green
though the space around them clears;
Slowly the grey, tired air
Drains color from their bones.
And yet, the sun still shines
And golden leaves dance on blacktop streets.
Why is the air sparkling
As if someone sprinkled glitter on the world?
The other day I heard this piece of music: “Spiegel Im Spiegel” (which means “mirror in mirror,” or a never-ending reflection), and it really touched me. I wanted to show you my imaginings as I listened to this piece of beauty. What do you see in your mind as you listen?
Listening to this music feels like being suspended in cool, clear water, observing the almost imperceptible ebbing of its current. The music flows around you, moving just enough to keep you afloat.
Or the effortless flying that only happens in movie screens or your dreams. A gentle push, and your head peeks above a filmy cloud. Air is your cradle, the sky your haven.
Or the long, deep draw of breath after you have cried right down to your soul. Your chest heaves and falls, but the sadness no longer strangles your lungs. Your eyes open and you realize the morning light is tinting your hands peach.
I feel the rustle of Beauty lifting the curtain to blow her sweet breath on me. Oh to live in this sound-world forever!
Ripple of light and shadow,
Dust and air;
Sunlight swirls in a dance
Upon the forest floor.
Rhythms of the air
Bend the supple trunks
And chatters still leaves
Into a whirring murmur.
This sound rolls around me
Like an invisible ball
And I am caught up
In the whirwind’s very center.
The whole world participates
In this endless dance of joy;
Even nature’s childish romps
Are unconscious displays of grandeur.
Ensconced in this palace
Of wild, woodland peace
I am strangely comforted
Even as I feel small.
For God’s arms are the wind,
His love is the sun;
As He moves the leaves and shadows
So He moves through me.
(c)Rachel Lowrance 2014
Some days I write poetry
Other days I don’t.
Some days the words run into my arms
Bouncing with glee
And I lay them down in neat rows,
Some days the words hide from me
Refusing my summons
And my thoughts sound stilted,
Stupid on the page.
Written after over a year of poetic silence.