one hundred eighty eight
the future is here.
that's what i am realizing this moment. i feel like when i was a child reading science fiction comics that came in toy packages. four colors and infinite worlds. we speak like this. and every moment a beginning. sandbars. rivers.
in the fall we had journeys in the yard; we were thieves eating from gardens; we sat in trees and felt the winds of a changing season. everything is real.
the wood is soft from the weather--winters of snow and thaw and summers of sun, heat, and rain. the wood is grey; i lie beneath a tree in the summer, remembering a book from the library. we know it so well--the grass, the trees, the spaces left to move through. i am digging up a message i left for myself in the past. it's too bad the buried note is a thousand miles away and in someone else's backyard. everything is near and no one owns the land.
we are whispering to be heard. we speak through leaves and we touch when we are able. listen--it is the sound of a world turning inside out like a paper bag. it is the sound of the wings of insects. it is the sound of a season changing. we sit beside the creek and listen to the wind moving through leaves.
that's what i am realizing this moment. i feel like when i was a child reading science fiction comics that came in toy packages. four colors and infinite worlds. we speak like this. and every moment a beginning. sandbars. rivers.
in the fall we had journeys in the yard; we were thieves eating from gardens; we sat in trees and felt the winds of a changing season. everything is real.
the wood is soft from the weather--winters of snow and thaw and summers of sun, heat, and rain. the wood is grey; i lie beneath a tree in the summer, remembering a book from the library. we know it so well--the grass, the trees, the spaces left to move through. i am digging up a message i left for myself in the past. it's too bad the buried note is a thousand miles away and in someone else's backyard. everything is near and no one owns the land.
we are whispering to be heard. we speak through leaves and we touch when we are able. listen--it is the sound of a world turning inside out like a paper bag. it is the sound of the wings of insects. it is the sound of a season changing. we sit beside the creek and listen to the wind moving through leaves.
posted by matt iv at 6:32 PM
2 Comments:
Hey Matt!
I wasn't sure what your actual email address is so I thought I could reach you here... Just wanted to let you know the 3rd book in the trilogy by John Twelve Hawks just came out on Tuesday. Do you remember that series? I gave you the traveler and dark river one of the times you were in town. If you are interested i can send the third book to you when Neal and i are done with it. If you don't want it no biggie but I thought you might like to read it. I really love these books and will be sad when I finish this one.
I hope all is well with you!
Say hi to Jen for me.
Michelle
Michelle,
hey! yeah, i remember the series....even though i haven't read them yet! i haven't listened to that first one yet--i've been meaning to find it at the library so i can read it first (i don't seem to make space for listening to audio books very often, although i usually have enjoyed it when i have in the past) and then move on to the second one.
it's kinda funny that you ask about this--we just went through our books (just a day or so before i read your message) and got rid of a bunch of them and i looked at those two again. i realized i'd really like to check them out and had sorta just left them waiting on the shelf. i'm excited to read them; so, yeah, if you don't mind holding onto that one for me, that would be great. thanks!
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