Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Zen.

One night last February
Milo and Miranda
sat quietly drinking
in a small bar
just down the road
from their house.

It was the 27th
and with only
two nights before
the change of season
they could both taste
the memory
that summer's kiss had
left faded on their lips
as they toasted the
soft sadness and lonely
plans that they
as dreamers
had left behind
lost in the sand
beneath the sun
buried as tiny toes
wriggled deep
into the contentment
of languid lazy
days.

Autumn creeped
and shadowed outside
as ballerinas of
rain tumbled and span
an erratic dance in the
golden glow
of the street lamps
and puddled the
pavement in silver
pools.

Miranda drank
Tequila mixed
with
orange
a subtle
salute to the past
and Milo
a red wine
a greeting perhaps
to the winter days
which beckoned.

The bar was full
for a Thursday
but there was little noise
save the whispering
of lovers who leaned
over the tables to talk
and Milo pointed
out to Miranda how
beautiful everyone
looked as they kissed
and the tabletop candles
illuminated them
below the chin
as daffodils.

Everyone here likes
butter,
Miranda said and
her eyes sparked
with the reflection of the
flames as they both
smiled at the innocent memory
of their childhood.

Maybe I should write
about that,
thought Milo,
remembering the
days of freeing seedlings
with his breath
and the smell of
manure and mud,
snakes and paddocks
and ladders which led
to the heights of the haystacks.

I know that look,
said Miranda,
you're trying to write
aren't you?

Milo sighed
a sigh which
for a moment
made
the candle switch from
waltz to samba.

I am,
he said,
but I'm lost
at the moment -
I've lost the words
which hold the moments
the flow which makes the
dreams morph real the weight
which grounds the fantastical and the
truth which keeps everything transparent.

And,
he said,
holding his wine glass before his eyes
seeing the world
as though drowned
in roses
I keep trying to have
a little
moral at the end,
as though I know,
as though I have discovered
something larger than this
when I still feel so far
from what it is
that I am meant
to know.

Miranda reached across
the table, held him by the hand
and said,
so keep writing
and never finish the story,
just let the word
tumble
like acrobats,
giggle
like clowns
keep your fingers
moving and
your mind
empty and
just write
mister
just write
write
write
and leave the meaning
to someone
who
cares.

Milo smiled
at his friend
and gazed out the window
as the full moon
bashful of its nakedness
hid behind the clouds
and
in the window
against the black canvas
the reflection of the candles
inside
were as tiny Japanese
lanterns, floating
on a calm
still
pond.

Fuck me
that's looks fantastic,
Milo thought
and emptied an
exhale of laughter
as he ordered two more drinks.

Miranda smiled.

It was a beautiful night.

No comments:

Post a Comment