Orbs of Crystal Light
July 21, 2011
It’s late and the moon shines boldly in the sky, whispering. Night after night, we sit and the moon spills its secrets to me. Tonight is different though. Tonight, I ask it a question. The moon answers by releasing the secrets of another who heard its own long ago.
The moon begins, “I speak in the voice of the one who kept me company during those dark hours in time.”
I am neither a poet nor a writer, just one who strings words together from thoughts and ideas littering my mind. I collect and combine them into some organized way that makes a semblance of sense, at least for me. They are my dreams. They are me falling to pieces, laughing, living a life that only exists in my head. They are the me, trapped inside, that no one bothers to see or look for. Occasionally, a crack of light streaming under the door appears and that is when my bits and pieces escape, out into the light, the night, or the storm. Lightning flashes and the rumbling echoes approach from the distance. The clouds darken and ironically lose their shine as they fill with liquid crystals. Sitting by the window, curled up on the sofa, the steam rises from my cup of tea like a snake rising from a basket and dancing to the charmers tune. The curtains, although sheer and slightly parted, reveal a small triangular patch of glass; a porthole to the approaching storm. I wonder what story the rain will bring. Will it be one of whimsy, romance, danger, intrigue or something else? Those that are whimsical or romantic accompany a soft, gentle rain; foretold from the playfulness of the clouds and sun; manifested in games of hide-n-seek, seen by observers on the ground and the small-feathered planes flying in the air. The hard, angry rain falls when the sun refuses to play, spinning who-done-its and bringing a sense of foreboding as the drops vent their anger against rooftops and windowpanes.
I feel the tugging of the sunlight flickering along the seams of the front door. Bits want to fly away and pieces want to stay. Conscious of the tug-o-war going on, I ponder for the briefest of seconds. Looking down, I see my hand on the doorknob and realize the bits have won. I turn the knob and the door slowly opens; creaaak, creak, creeeeeak it cries, mimicking those thoughts and feelings stretching while preparing to take flight. I step out onto the front porch, sit, and wait. Wait for the storm to come. I want to feel the rain wash down over me. Its coolness or warmth does not really matter. It is the feeling it gives. The first drops begin to stain the ground in front of me. Drop, splaaat. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississ. Drop, splaaat. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Missi. Drop, splaaat. One Mississippi, two Mi. The rain begins to fall faster and it is a soft rain. I watch the drops streak across my line of sight, creating the illusion of lines, like pencil strokes across paper.
Each drop, an acrobat, performing somersaults in the sky, captures a view and holds onto it until that fateful splat at which point, a multitude of small worlds merge. Fascinated by the merging drops and their movement, I peer into the puddle forming near my feet. On the edge of the puddle, there is a sense of movement similar to something trying to break free. A small drop of water, no bigger than the size of a green pea, pulls away. A look of confusion, if a raindrop can have a look, spreads across it as it decides what to do. It tilts in my direction and again, a look passes over it, one of knowing or curiosity. I am not sure. The drop stretches and hesitantly reaches out toward me. It makes contact with my sneakers and begins its shimmying movements across the sneaker top and up the outside of the pants leg. It hops onto my hand, and spins in circles, becoming dizzy before continuing up. Swiftly it glides over my arm, neck, and cheek, coming to a stop on the bridge of my nose. A long stretch and it splits like an unbroken wishbone, staring deep into my eyes, acknowledging a connection, a feeling that it knows me. Silently and without my noticing that small pea drop of rain has grown and fully enveloped me. Holding me in a liquid cocoon, it sings me a sweet lullaby and plants images in my mind. I see grape vineyards that go on as far as the eye can see, wooden trellises woven with vines, tunnels of trees folded over across dirt roads, fingers caressing my skin, breathy whispers, cliff side views of the ocean waves crashing against sleeping rocks, a lifetime condensed into a single moment. As the cocoon recedes, it leaves not a single pea sized drop of water but the memory of a thousand kisses instead.
I spy a tear shaped crater, visible for an instant, on the moon’s face before it stops speaking. It sighs and says goodnight.
Written: July 21, 2011
Posted on BC: July 21, 2011
© C Berger
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