I sing a shattered song of someone else’s youth the melody forgotten the words faded into odd syllables heard in my dreams. The coyote stands at the edge of a gully staring at me and wondering why I slip from the hogan through the hole punched in the back wall slinking away in the encroaching dark. The priest, his saffron robes pulled tight around his legs in the morning chill, stares as I run my hands across the giant brass bell feeling its resonance. I hear the dirge as sleep nips at the edge of my consciousness grabbing the frayed margins of life
On the razor edge of dreams the periphery of consciousness a face appears, and I am left to wonder who this person is, who he might be. At first he is a child with a pixie cut, a bowl placed over the head, the bangs cut without considering the face peering out and others peering in. But, as sleep washing the last sands of consciousness out to the sea of Morpheus, the face morphs and it is Science Officer Spock who is peering back at me, his ears pointed to the heavens reminding me, as I slip into Morpheus’ orbit that I can yet live long and prosper.
I thought I heard a woman singing somewhere in the distance, an ethereal song whose melody floated over me, dropping momentarily into my consciousness then as quickly flitting away. I walked off the carefully tended path stepped into the clutching brush, the smell of Juniper filled the air. Pushing through a thicket I thought I saw a woman retreating into the trees but the melody lingered and I sat and listened never seeing the singer only hearing the song.
In our small world night and day are separated by dreams that escape just beyond our consciousness. We search for deeper meaning even as we are certain they will leave us as they have long before we could remember. That is the trouble with margins, they ebb and flow without warning, their arrivals and departures unannounced, so listen carefully and embrace the silence.