The longest sunset pours over the world’s edges like a waterfall.
The horizon tries in vain to wrap its golden-yellow arms around every inch of the globe, dipping its hands in as many oceans and running its hands along the sides of as many mountains as it can reach. Even on this day, the other side of the mountain remains out of reach and the ocean only gives up some of its depths to horizon hands.
The shadows lengthen under the spectrum sunset in contradiction.
The shadows pace further from their homes on that day than on any other, their feet borne beyond the safety of their usual haunts, as if taunting the sunset at its inability to destroy the darkness. Even the shortest, the weakest, the brightest of nights is announced by the darkest of shadows. While the ground melts into nothingness, the sky is on fire.
Look up at the fire as though there is nothing else – to know you’re alive.
There is no contradiction more stark than time, which points its arrow along a single axis, bearing us, helpless, into the future while its timelines are mired with multitudes, contradictions, fateful encounters and chance happenings that abandon axes all together, operating in the vast expanse between coherence and truth.
How can I explain time without explaining its in-explicability? Time, in all its linearity, constantly rewrites itself, for in each moment, we overwrite the truths of the past with the truths of the present, re-crafting the world in our memory into something inexplicably new.
Memory knows nothing of the past. It is an invention of the present, a clever liar, a wraith passing by our window in the dead of night, bringing beautiful falsehoods disguised in the veil of truth, truths that smile at us with familiar faces we have never seen before.
We look backward to look forward, our necks bending to the past, straining against the moment, our eyes inventing the images that we will share with our children when we have finally shaped them into truths.
At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title, that includes today’s prompt word, “wound” in the body of the poem. We can use the word “wound” or a form of the word – not a synonym for the word.
that glow green-radiant in unkempt spring breezes and rustle across the un-tuned strings of my weary heart in the most sweet-melancholic melody
Like the ghost of a memory, that melody stirs something somewhere in the deep recesses amid the vines, the phantom limbs of the breeze hugging my heart in the wailing and whistling vocals of my ancestors.
The vines wrap around my heart tightly against the dusk and the promise of cold, their old and reborn roots anchoring me as the blue-frost edges of sunset take hold.
Blanketed by ghosts and memories, my heart aches as I recall amid the piercing notes of my Blue Tuesday heart-string blues how many vines I tore up, expecting to remain rooted.