Will We Hear When Flowers Cry?
I look for songs to play till i realize a song already playing.
“The quiet is not quiet is what i think to myself” as the wild winds of spring blow, and the wind chimes play, my thoughts could be lyrics. Though thoughtless i am and in a zen buddhist place of the ever empty blue. I wonder why i wonder at all, i just wonder in awe.
I see the vines, the verdant green and maple thorn vines reaching three finger hands into the whitewash wall. A couple weeks ago; though i lose track of time these days since isolation, the train derails, loops in the forever now; a few moments out gathering coffee and paints and soon to begin on tea leaf brewing, which then would become Japanese tea parties, strutting Mr. Katahira’s Kabusecha tea leaves extracted and sipped from the fields of Ryogouchi. And on my return the grapefruit tree in my neighbors yard with wood boney hands who’d reach over the whitewash wall with orange grapefruits over the vines had been slaughtered and cut, and just when pearly white incandescent perfumes of spring had like alchemy brewed a constant love potion into the air we breathed – but the workers cut it all down, i forgive them, i do, a righteous anger fills me, and they know not what they do, Creator forgive us for not understanding our earth. Will we hear when the flowers cry? We’ve been born with a fake reality, one that is fake because it excluded nature as lover and teacher – giver and receiver – home. We must enter into nature and learn again what it means to be human – to be natural – to live like a flower of the grapefruit tree, cut down, and branches which caught and felled the verdant green and maple thorn vines quietly growing through a grey petal; who now have reached one firm vine holding the rest with the shape of a hand reaching into the fake wall of the inside of your head and said – “life loves life”
God please send an art house in the mountains
Where the wildflowers sway and swoon so free and everyone can be
my friends and i