The day fills drop by drop, a pool, accumulating moments, no two alike. An excavator rumbling next door, a little yellow plastic flag crackling in a blast of wind. A monarch butterfly coasts like a kite, pausing to sip nectar from a purple pouch of vetch. I draw limp, clammy laundry from the washing machine, slinging the pieces over my shoulder, hang them outside to dry. The sun’s heat grasps my forearms through the light fabric of my shirt. I mouth a warm, crisp bite of toast. Shadows scamper across my wooden desk. A squeaky tractor bumps down the pot-holed road. A tiny red-belly snake tenses, coiled around itself under an empty tray in the shade of the house. The chair ticks and groans as I shift my weight. The little pot rings like a bell as the water boils; an egg lowered on a spoon dampens the sound.
Moment Made Flesh
The day’s fractal surfaces are books, bodies, matrices of snow and leaf, water in its shape-shift from ground, breath, river, tide, and leaf-exhalations to sky; its drift and drizzle from cloud to earth. The day’s fractal surface unfolds, reveals itself: shattering, dappling, mirror-ball mosaic of light racing towards us, a wave of radiance. The day’s … Read more