Letter – 15 October 2011

Beloved,

I’m in tatters. My breath boughs, resigns and reaches for you, only to find the slopes of eternity silenced… slayed in this afternoon light.
It is obvious, without you my grief presents the cliff with an edge, where naught stands before me… I search for comfort and find only the needles of the pine, in hand, where the names of the dead bathe in the moonlight.
With each breath, I try to unlearn you, yet, how does one unlearn the concealed song flowing through their veins?

 

A

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6 thoughts on “Letter – 15 October 2011

  1. My heart shed tears at this, for I am coming out of the place where you wrote this from. It’s hard to move on…

  2. Beloved,

    “One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.” Gibran Khalil Gibran, Sand and Foam

    Though time and again the lovers’ broken wings may dwell under the shadow of drought, in the palm that flows and overflows with the bitterness of woe — it is not here that their divinity lies, nor is it for this place that their pure hearts beat, and sigh. Nay! Though the lovers’ song knows every curve and nook in the body of woe and has drank to emptiness the empty cask of drought, it cannot therein be confined. Therein confined love’s song becomes the lion’s roar, and breaks out. For love solely dwelling therein, submitted and surrendered, is not love; love, as God’s spirit on creation’s second day, comes out victorious, garbed in white glow, healed and whole.

    Lovers, lips together kissing the bitter cup of woe, gaze deep in each other’s eyes, and know — in the bottom of this cup there dwells an aftertaste of light that is as surely to emerge as the day to come out from the womb of night.

    As for the needles of pine decking your hand as thorns once crowned the head of Christ — behold, your Beloved opens his palm and says: “come now, Love, and place your hand in mine. Let the needles that have so pierced your palm enter mine as well. Let our lips share this moon that now rises red. Hand in hand as fingers clutch tight, our blood shall merge into One and behold, dripping into the garden of hearts, flowers shall emerge to bathe in our light. At dawn’s hour, I foretell, the palms opening in prayer shall birth roses of white and red, and plumes to drink up the names of the dead only to release them, moon-winged butterflies, chasing away all dread.”

    When your breath falters like a hand falling with no might, my breath shall enter your chest, breathe for your breath and lead you to my shore; and when my breath from my chest is stolen by a hand that promises blight, your breath entering me like a most soothing balm shall lift and shelter me from the ways of harm — thus, in unity, though speechless and silent, eternity’s slopes are never mute. It is the speechlessness and the silence of profound birth, of growth that holds under its wings the two extremities of pain and joy and pointing skyward, inward — a place of stability, relatedness, and belonging.
    Eternity’s slopes that beheld our wedding on that joy clad morn shall reverberate our spirit — unto forever.

    ~

    Moon-tide hour, came,
    Surging white deep, oh soft flame,
    My veins flowed, our song.

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