'tears in your bottle'
'tears in your bottle' (prose poem) timothy r gates, 2/27/2012
I awoke this morning in my drenched bed, soaked by tears of the night,
not knowing whether they were mine or those of the angels glad they no longer needed
to keep watch.
Dreams are a funny thing, sometimes so fanciful that you have no need to have them informed, yet other times more real than real. Surreal. I have no need this morning to know which are more true. Or, if either are.
Memory's streams, reinterpretations times a quantum equation, our own stories
weaving the myth of our linage back to the Garden's crossroads of the Tigris and Euphrates.
I pray that my intoxication with the tributaries of the Mississippi's allegorical run of north to south knows its way, facing from the west to the eastern sun.
Children open both sorrow's tombs and joy's forgotten genesis, allowing lazy feet to dance, skip, and yes, swirl. Here I find the leaves waltzing with the breeze more real than another's story.
Thoughts are just that, thoughts, often a waste of otherwise well spent energy, looking for answers where there are none, yet not resting where there is room to sit.
I awoke this morning, Déjà vu or merely another night's walk with Jacob completed, only difference, my step not as pronounced with a limp. Or, a casual observer might say it is.
I pray, this apocalypse is as it should be, one part of any given day, “and the night and day was the first day.”
I chant, “You count my wanderings; you, put my tears into your bottle; are they
not in your book?”
Dreams are a funny thing, sometimes used as divination, other times they are only
dreams. And, a day is a day, nothing more or less, yet the only one that is. Ha! Dream.
posted by Timothy's at 1:53 PM
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