both

there is an autumn of luxuriance, of soft colours, deepened by rain and mist - 

an autumn which is but a different kind of spring, making me unsure of how time flows (and returns, always, to the same point). 

and there is an autumn of austere moods, of slow fading back to the roots of formlessness (except that there will always be, somewhere, quietly pulsing at the core of unadornedness, the blood of  berries - even in the snow its pulse will go on, a steady reminder of the same return). 

i am both autumns.

black, silver & blue

..

in the end...

in the end it is only colours that matter. they remind me of you at sunset, when light turns upon itself and autumn comes to die upon your skin, lingers for a while in your eyes then suddenly sinks into you to make your bones glow from within, for just a while longer.


in the end it is only the bird's flight that matters. it reminds me of nothing but itself. this and...


the promise of the sky at dawn?


no, just its emptiness. this and the emptiness of the sky.

..

who would know, who (in homage to Ono no Komachi)

waiting for you all night.
two moons lit up my skin,
my dry rose blossomed anew.
only you didn't come.
towards dawn, a big blue bird
flew home and crushed, its chest open,
against my window.
who would know, who
that i was the bird
and you were the temple in which,
suddenly, all flutter had ceased.

..

blue birds (2)

you must learn to see blue birds from now, I was told. you must learn to be someone else. after the last word was spoken. without. you must learn to unfold a life on the edge of this cutting silence, I was told.

must I? asked the little marquise quietly, and jumped on her wild horse. she led her black horse, which sometimes she called her pain, away into the blue morning, where blue birds fell from the sky and opened like flowers after the rain.

shall I obey, shall I defy, shall I take my revenge at the cusp of the sky...

when she reached the horizon line, where no eyes could follow her any more, she leant inside and, quickly, no hesitation in her white fingers, she strangled the black bird becoming alive in her grave, turning blue.

hush little bird, be quiet, be still. no god has ever risen through the scent of my hair. no stone has ever unfolded at the heart of the loss. I am the keeper of your death, the sacred door to the blue nothing.