thinking of the American mind

If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the Creator, there is no poverty. -Rilke

We are the inheritors of the age of reason. Though I sometimes wonder…

There’s a stream out back. Just past the cornfield, dividing the woods from the open hills. This past spring thaw saw a strange stillness. And the water served up early clouds of bloodborn mosquitoes that sharpened the divide separating one from the other with a marked unease.

Summer is a seducer. Her veiled touch teases. She enters the room fully disrobed driving the birds into thin dusty air; turning the stream to a trickle; melting the restraint on either side while they look upon each other with growing distrust.

I have always hid the mark of Cain but now I find myself half awake and alone in the woods wondering why.

I hear the King’s words in the distance. They are difficult to avoid. Yet I still look for words of my own in the silent passages and, occasionally, the subway walls.