Home as a story
I close my eyes and we are standing enveloped
by forest in the late afternoon.
The trees are singing
of a melancholy more crisp
and a warmth more wistful
than anything resembling
but this is a salve for something unfixable
so I meet your eyes and let sleeping dogs lie.
(You whisper sweet nothings
to lull them to sleep.)
And the leaves do not know
they should be hanging at half-mast
but the long grass raises its hackles,
warns us never to tell them,
so they dance on.
The sun gleams gold and the branches
sweep skyward - a flying buttress
for the cathedral you've built
in the palm of your hand.
Perhaps this haven
is where you found refuge from that wild edge
that would creep into your clear, steady voice even then
until you learnt to quell it with the gentle dexterity
of an ancient craftsman
wise in the ways of forgetting.
And at some point I realize what I've always known
that there is nothing whimsical
about this magic. This is intentional, now, to stir
the most painful complexities with the lightest
of possible touches, this
is beauty last, and first
it is survival.
Still murmuring lies to the sun-dappled soil,
you close your eyes. And I wonder what you see.
(Cristina Leone is a cognitive science nerd who also sometimes likes to write)
The Beautiful Space-