The Story of the Path


All right now, settle down, settle in, for the same story, told again,
______here inside the possibilities of rhythm and melody.

It all starts down a path worn by the footsteps of children,
______vessels molded by design, prodigies and forgers.

Sundays, after breakfasting with young minds aimed at practice and repetition,
______with refinement of the fingers and maturation of the ears,
______the following composition presides:

If they should fall ill, the apron appropriates subtle comforts
______and the chill from a sudden sweat ensures the maternal spirit.

One of the children, the third one in the third row there,
______ripped right pant knee, stretched T-shirt,
______the one looking down at the roots and rodent holes,
______carried the most unfortunate of gifts –
______one that the people will come to envy.

Oh, the symphony to follow – one can see the promise in the bouncing knees,
______the suspended arms, the open laughter.

Approaching the clearing, the germinating species spreads in screams
______and chuckles, cadences and rhymes, each to find his own end
______in this story of chance, mood, and notion.

The breeze understood the melodic cadence of this display,
______as the sun wished to cling to the tank tops, tube socks,
______and brazened arms.

Water hoses and lefty loosies, the right tight turn and the spray and chase,
______call and whisper, don’t get wet…too late.

Soon, the inevitable turn away and the return to duty, and the one
______with the downward looking eyes bends his brow to home.

Love, the bundled burning heat, super heavy weight prize begotten and
______laced in duty and time and need, tucked neatly in backpacks
______and lunch boxes.

These are the things I notice, looming in the archway,
______head up against the column, chasing echoes,
______defining spirits, examining causes,
______invention of the clear square box in the circle of sand.

Now back down and the story of the gift-bearing child in the circus
______of ants, a story of circulars and routine; come on, you know him,
______like a neighbor’s son cutting grass and squaring trees.

Down the same road, along the fence, recently mended by elders’ hands
______to boot, the dirt forgives the occasional intruder,
______as the moat is dried
______and the leathern leaves have forgotten the season.

The boy’s feet move as they are directed, as the birches peer, peak
______over their lids, and lean, applause for the pure,
______as all is set in motion and clean, like freshly wiped counter tops
______and sparkling tubs.

Many years from then, here, the boy shall return,
______even on the final day of passing.

The remembrances shall define themselves,
______as blue is blue and green is green.

And now, set down at the keys, the light looms from an indifferent candle,
______gently minding the careful articulation of the fingers.

Out from his head, large hands charmed stray words, compacted clay, smoothed
______phrases and packaged them in silver bows of prestige.

Even the bookcases played their part,
______as soldiers lined before the executive procession,
______staring forth, willing to forego sense and purpose
______for strength and identity,
______a unity of articulation.

And now the boy grows old, and in looking back he reassures himself,
______but still he dreams of chasing the train and leaving the ground of his dream,
______void of reservation.

And so, the melody remains, remembrances washed and renewed
______by candle light reflected in rain drenched windows
______and floral couch patterns, cooling tea and thoughts
______of Mozart and Faust, Milton and Dante.

The story has begun, as it is the end of the path in the woods;
oooooothe sun has tired and the birds run for cover in nests
oooooobeyond the power lines and enemies of prey.

To what purpose do we hold this story of recurring elements and structures,
oooooocolored beams and compromising ladders?

The old man claims the purpose is in the objects themselves,
ooooooas "essence precedes existence," says the Bobcat high on the mountain,
oooooorolling in the grass, talking to the Sun, bathing his deserving belly.

The fence, the roots, nests, piano keys, strained light –
ooooooall these provide the purpose of the return and willingness.

Should you stumble upon the child, looking down, understanding the weight
ooooooto which he is chained, pay him no attention.

He will only question you and recoil to his room, the egg of residence and habit.

It is to this music we owe the consideration of the moment,
ooooooas all these strains and pluckings have once before existed
ooooooin the depths of Geneva and Vienna, Strasberg and Plymouth.

Bend now and prepare – the founding fathers have abandoned the nest,
ooooooand the vultures wait anxiously for the newly formed theory and postulate.

The opposition has woven traps in figures and digits, myths,
oooooomillion dollar commercials.

Ready the battlements, and bring the blue sky,
ooooooas its boundlessness and definition
oooooowill breed confusion to the measured and meticulate.

So ends the path.



oooooooooooooooooooooooooTop/Arriba


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