HistoryDude

The hermit crab who outgrows his old shell ought not try to return to it, assuming that it will remain there for him unchanged.

The shiny skin of the apple, covered in wax and pesticides, does not allow you to see the rot emanating from the core until you take several bites.

And so it is. I shed no tears for it. I raise my chin and look north.

Soon, soon…

Today I left the city, drove into the woods, and sat down on a rock by a frozen river. The only sound I could hear was the subtle hiss of pressure escaping from my head.

Too often we lament what we do not have in our lives, but fail to realize the joy of what we can hold on to. As such, I was less impressed with the silent hawks who danced overhead, set against the grey. I instead celebrated the pale sage winter moss…growing underneath the frozen granite boulder.

The lesson is obvious.

Αθάνατος Συγκομιδή

“I live in the perpetual verdure of the globe.
I die in the annual decay of nature.”
-Thoreau, March 8th, 1842

Brown nursery blankets turn back.
Exposed. Yellowed skeleton teeth sing.
So powerful, so vital.

The tactile thrill in the feel of it,
Handfuls sift through fingers.
Falling at the dirty bosom.

Of Chicomecoatl, or Nidaba
Or Demeter, or You.
The name matters not.

Walking alone through a ripe field.
Austere dignity.
Deep imposing solemnity.

Both Mother and Maiden,
Both expired and ecstatic,
Differences indistinguishable.