It is close to dawn when
the path awakens to shake off cold
drops of
dew. My feet step carefully seeking familiar footing
on slippery thoughts,
aware of stones
rising
to trip them up,
while the bright sun spreads over dry blistering landscapes.
But
if he should pause to gather himself, he is lost!
Words howl around my head,
scanning eyes for insight. Is
my hearing getting dim? Was Beethoven deaf to the critics
of his late great works?
Like Motherwell spreading
seas of black paint, or Rothko's
unplowed fields of colors, Pollock's paint-splattered boots,
a plant dips, pierces skin and my arms turn red. Not a rose
bush, but vines draining an earth of its combustible blood.
But If he should: R.
Char. From, "Forehead of the Rose."