Saturday, June 11, 2005


June 9, 2005

I hung a Tire in a Sycamore,
a Thorn Bird on her branches;
bent the brittle sky
into a riddle...

Truth died grudgingly;
nay, she only slept,
dreamt fitfully,
for I desired dignity...

You interfered with the planets,
cloud-crossed Moon...
beyond seeing and seeming,
you touched life, entered strife,
called to the Moon-Watcher
swinging on the Tire
beneath the dappled Tree.

Where was she to run,
and why?
For all she ever sought
was to chat with the Moon;
and finally,
the Moon answered back.

She has what she came for;
she's tucked the treasure up her sleeve...

But others there are
who are not ready to leave.

The Tree is quaking,
the Tire, swinging violently;
the Thorn Bird cries
it's beautiful song;
the Dragon...
she has waited long.

The Watcher now
is bound to sit and tell
their story to the Moon,
though she had hoped
to speak of other things...
more beautiful and pleasant things...

Like the silver quill she found
while swinging beneath a Sycamore
by the Moon's silver sheen.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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