August 21, 2011

Other Days

This is my favorite part of the week: the kids have stopped screaming and fighting the inevitable- sleep. They are curled-up lost in a tapestry of slumber and books. Both of them are literally asleep on a bed of books--bound by paper and images, imaginations, stories and wonder. Silent. The house is perfect.

Earlier we went for a bike ride, a swim, had dinner, baths, teeth brushed, a little TV. There is little poetry in these activities except for when you look and realize the whole thing is the most amazing poem there can ever be-- passing childhood. A bundle of lives interwoven: a family rolling through the tunnel of time.

The music is soft and caressing the places which need a soothing touch. Tonight it is Gillian Welch. The trembling of her guitar strings and vocal chords the perfect universal vibration. After everything has been done, checked off lists, read, consumed, understood, reflected on, pondered and argued. After the information has been swallowed, regurgitated, tweeted and subdued, there is little else left but this...

This moment of time. Floating on each breath. Full-in. Full-out. The words drip like stimulated sap on the run. Sticky. Aromatic. Alive but operating on a different plane of time. Amber colored solitude draped in the need for the never-ending night. Memories of merlot and spilling ashtrays supplanted by the reality of fatherhood and Sunday nights that will never be long enough. That will not, cannot, take you where you need to go.

It is good. Of this you are certain, but beyond that it gets murky. These words have been a trusty wave. A good ride. No need to paddle out again. There will be other sets. Other days.

image by swede1971

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