Sing the song of gratitude, should the grass grow. Felt beneath our feet, the soil breathing its song. Let it growl a languid tone, for its tongue rests underneath its greenth overflows and wild creatures. A picture of placidity it draws, hidden under its overtone of yellow kingdom. Don't let it loom over you, for its stature is everything but onerous. Tell it why you fear not the soil nor its engulfing sky, and it shall move the winds easy. Speak with candor and imbue it with your love. Because when it hears your song of gratitude, it too will sing.
Here, in the sun, looking straight forward over the green lawn onto the bacciferous frondescence The space between the building where psychopathology was taught and the building where our intelligence was tested – buildings made unsafe and marred and subjected to presence – Here, I just am; there is no absence As far as my eyes can see, the “where” is here and the “when” is now and I am alone, listening in to today
A bee flies by and draws my eye to the peripheral timescape Inside the dark window to the left we sit in silence and wait for a pre-school class to walk past so we can continue a lesson that ended a year ago Behind me looms the auditorium where we partook in curiosity Beyond this greenth, you own the space But on this bench, there is no absence Here, I can breathe, lone as I am
A poem of finding spaces where the presence of one's past feels less vivid in its absence. 20 May 2020.