April 15, Tuesday of Holy Week.
The children are out of school on holiday around here, and the shiny April spring rings out with their laughter. It's a delicate tinkling though, mostly, mingling with the sound of the river-stream, and the singing birds, and the distant calling of gulls. The daffodil season has turned over. Now is the time of bluebells.
There's a sort of quiet that settles on Holy Week, even when you're not looking for it. I would say that though unconscious, the knowledge of it lingers there, in the back of your mind, except it doesn't--it's not in the mind at all, but all around, somehow. More than anything, to me this year's Holy Week suggests rest.
I wrote a poem this evening, and Holy Week kind of runs behind it I think, like marble threaded in stone. Or maybe not. I'll let you decide.
A second draft:
I like to walk at evening when
today has cooled, ready to be swallowed
by tomorrow, all blue swells and valleys,
the flavor set in. I need the clumps in me
to settle as well, like silk-rich silt
into my limbs, by skipping soles
over mud and tendons
of root-wood by the river:
the mineral smell of new grass shoots and
luscious, moist mushrooms from the morning's
breakfast--when the waking daylight hours steeled themselves
like girls gathering their skirts to cross
a terrain of potentialities. Out of many that brush
their hems, a few will catch like burrs
on sheep's unshorn spring fleece.
copyright L.C. Ricardo. all rights reserved