Writings by Tim Girvin
The Wheeling

The stars are brilliant,
against ebonized steel,
in their pricked spattering
across the heavens, like
a great wheel, sprung out
in unknown spokes, cast
in some patterning which
is beyond my comprehension;
but still -- it's not.

Trees quaver, blackened
rivulets, like mapping of
deltas, dividing the
speckling of the stellar
populations, sky havens, unvisited.

There is a rushing, like
time, of a great river below,
which surrounds me, calling
from the trees, grasses,
and the stones;
it is a scouring, against
roughened paper, of
brush, loaded with soot ink,
chewed of charcoal, whetted with rain,
drawing strokes of
a godly rhythm, characters
of time, spelling moments.
And memory -- because again,
I won't forget this.

But what is it for you?
It is, in clarity, spelling
out only good ventures, in
all that you shall do, this day.
All the writing is right,
the vatic alphabet drawn, to
cast, like shadows, your steps
to wonder, the turning over
of stones, the balanced
cairns along that pathway,
leading you onwards, in
the darkness, by this shore
of time, to light -- and:
new seeing.

It is drawn, and I see
it, for you. Tears
roll down, in awe.
I can smell the salt
on my lips.


Decatur Island
(Originally sent: October, 23 2004)

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