April 27, 2017

talking of stars


 

Let's stay up late and imagine the secret philosophy of stars. We could compose something wild and lovely between the dark sky and the candlelight, you and I. We could forget about time. And when the dawn dragged down our eyelids, hiding our own intimate stars, we could fall into silence, while the world danced.

This morning a swan flew over me in the gentle, frosted sunrise. It called to where it was going, as if it cast its longing ahead of it like a path. I'm sure we all do the same, sometimes.


art by sulamith wulfing
 

4 comments:

  1. i can hear the swan calling, my memory is full of swansong. one of the most magical sounds in the world...

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  2. Your beautiful words fill me with longing. I had a friend once; we communicated entirely through letters. It took eleven days for our pages to reach one another, which was plenty of time to write pages & pages more. She sent me a bird's nest made of hair from her horse's main. I sent her seashells and a print of my baby's tiny foot sprinkled with beach sand. She wrote to me of staying up one night and watching five episodes of The Gilmore Girls with her husband while she knit an entire pair of socks. They watched the sun come up together before making breakfast and greeting their children with sleepy smiles. That was eleven years ago, yet the memories are as bright as stars. I'm certain there must be a secret philosophy in them.

    I suppose this is a very strange comment, but it is what your words stirred up in my heart. ❤

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    Replies
    1. Not strange at all, very beautiful. And I know how wonderful pen friends can be, I only wish I was a better correspondent.

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  3. I had a love affair with Sulamith Wülfing when I was young. Her art, I mean. Still got a collection of little books + a heap of postcards. And Cicely Barker's flower fairies - I must have been such a romatic back in the day. I think I'll dig them out today, in the cold and rain by the fire, and see if they still speak to me. I can certainly relate to your writing, but don't have that particular gift of expression.

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