Somewhere, not-here, jagged mountains pass from verdant emerald green to snowy desolation in the course of a single day. Oceans are so salty that leaves on trees and blades of grass for miles inland appear furry, embedded in crystalline cocoons. The desert shifts shape like rolling tides, and sometimes the sand reveals a desert floor made of sheer glass. Rain falls horizontally. Clouds spew vertically out of the ground, funneling into an apricot sky. Sunsets last for days. Would human eyes work here? Would human brains let them?
August 15th, 2008
Back in March 2007, while musing about anti-materialism, I made reference to one of my earliest poetic reflections on beauty, memory, and loss. The poem has recently been rediscovered, and I present it here, unedited, save for much needed spelling corrections.
The Song I Sang on a Summer Evening
by (me, then age 7)
On a summer evening I sang a song.
It was no ordinary song, for it was a special song.
A different song.
One that no one knew.
It was my special song.
My special song that no one knew was a song that I made up.
My song that I made up now is not known.
Because I forgot it.
Do you know a song you sang on a summer evening?
August 13th, 2008