There is a story,
a story acting like a ribbon would
in the wind,
twisting and dancing.
In this story she is like a hill
rolling wet and green under a yellow sun.
She is that sliver of moon
bright in the dark summer night.
She is surrounded by children
and music, snow and breath and flowers,
righteous indignation and a certain way her eyes move.
They are explorers, her eyes seek not only the truth
but everything else too, including secrets
and locks without keys.
In this story she is all we ever wanted
gentle and strong, brave and funny.
She is a red balloon. A white dove.
The blue of the sky when the sky is so blue
it cannot be called blue,
blue is no longer adequate,
she is that blue sky.
She is mystery and fortune and serendipity.
In this story pages can’t contain her,
margins do not measure her,
she runs on and on and on,
volumes and volumes,
tome upon tome.
O the sweet wind of this story!
We have told it to each other
and have even tried to tell it to her.
She just laughs at our shy words.
And we hold her close
and cherish this breeze that keeps singing
in our ears
as the story ends.
— Susan Pahl
This article appears in Cowbells and Crab Hands.
Leave a comment