Clay

There was a moment when clay first opened the summer of green fields and oceans and star light. When the trespass of time on a moments silence touched the earth with resolution, alone.

That is what time is. Alone. When a child becomes angry at the sun and the clouds and the rain streams across the wooden table. How much longer before I see her again. Never?

That is not anger but tears. An inability to understand the unacceptable. But.

Again. Alone is that word that moment, then.

An emptiness a hollow.

The hollow is mine. Who does it belong to? Emptiness is shock. When the root falls to emptiness and nothing is left. Hollow is where something once belonged that was never there and has no word. Time.

My vanity. My ignorance. My certainty. My deliverance. My trust. My fear. My tomorrow.

I was a child of golden hair and eyes that belonged to a puppy. A puppy who looked at the camera as if it was a gallery of faces. All of them empty. A child who surmised what a friend was. A friend belonged in a book… the Other Side of the Mountain where happiness existed between the front and back pages.

Within the pages of Thomas, Arthur’s Page who said… I will die for my King in battle.

A child in a tent on a battle’s eve. A child in the back of a Lincoln in Kansas covered in rage that has only one word silence so silent the child never so much as speaks of it… to anyone. But he notes awareness of his soul. A word he calls sorrow. Until that word becomes so silent that it becomes his soul. Alone. And reading the last few pages of a borrowed Novel he understands the presence of the last chapter and the last few pages that he is saying goodbye to a friend and that even the greatest author can not hide the presence of the final pages. After six hundred pages of Wart braving the Forest to find Merlin who was born in the future and growing older into the past so that he could remember the future. Some author’s deserved metals.

Some children do. But here in his bedroom or in the backseat of their Lincoln the Medal would be questioned. what is this for, alone.

On a September evening Galivant ruptured on to the screen in Paper Mache and wooden Ballot. I have come to save the Alter for the Queen. I have come a Merchants child born of deliverance to fall at the feet of Lady Guinivere and trust my soul upon her beauty into the treasure of Service.

And I have become a child. Past my own family room walls I have found a place a gift a treaure, a something.

A mood which words have only meaning in the music. Where thought is captured on white page chasing away from this silent melody.

A child who found daydreaming too easy and distasteful… too much embarrassing. Not like callous or inspiration counted in the deliverance of character and wrinkles where in the face of an old man is a child’s worn down to his soul, alone. Promised. Given? Or taken?

Can words escape a bedroom window where feet touch grass. Until some bastard learns to read them in the billows of his chest. Taking credit for the tear, the mistaken lie of caring. The mistrust. The angle. The simpilitude until someone’s mother says…. what is this for? I was getting for you? One possibility. I was just getting ready to throw it away? Or maybe, maybe. Silence. And that word has a name.

Do you see him over here by the crops down the street. Here beside the Martians. And that word is alone.

Where do I want these words to go as I call them in from down the street. Can someone find Merlin. Or maybe Buzzie. Or maybe Jamie the artist who has just wondered into town. Daydreaming is an embarrassment. Determination is a badge left hidden.

I have a word a name for myself that defies my lost memories, and the word is correct and it is a verb. A name of motion that carries with it the stories of the words of a child.