A cup of tea. A taste of what was once sweet, in memory, of leaves unfolding. A cup of earth, rough and transparent to the touch. Soft emeralds filter through blooming sunlight. A cup unmoved and still before me. A sway glint dances upon reflection. A cup, undrunk, awaiting fulfillment, sits in full.
A stone uncut – it leaves the day alone. It waits for nothing, wishing not heaven or earth. A stone uncarved, the pure potential of my heart, beating and transparent to the touch. Beneath the sediment, who does the Earth think it is? It too is beating and rough and full and, unfulfilled, it does not wait. Full of sweet blossoming petals sweet as flint I wait upon the stone unwaiting – the earth a cup in front of me.
The sky is unmoved. Is it waiting? It moves. It moves but does not wait. Unmoved it goes to itself far away, untouched – untouched by hand and graced by eye it shines. The sky is a clearing in the heart of being outside itself, untouched, my heart beats. Flitting down it comes upon all that is earth and myself Adam reflecting warm glass upon its consanguineous emerald face. There are moments, in its omniscience, that unfold myself within the taste of memory already blank before the clouds.
Beyond me there are trees alive with song and hum and beyond the trees flame. Flame licks at the heart of things. It burns for nothing. It has no afterlife but after it comes death and after death is life again. The trees will glow again with song. The sky is still within my ribs and what does the earth think it is with its stone and song and flame? Is it still? Do flames stir? Unmoved is the sky blowing forth and the flame is still but who am I going toward its still honeyed fingers? Memories unfold before my face before I was.
An emerald drop falls rain a form of I now tea ripples transparent a thought