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IMPEDIMENTS
Pause for a moment and considerwhat you truly think of the window,stared at but never seen, at worstan impediment, at best a shield.Is that why it gathers dirt and dust,a vain attempt to establish a presencethat we quickly try to deny again.Doors have an easier time of it forwe must acknowledge them, bidthem a handshake…
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UNGAN SWEEPS THE GROUND
When you are cleaning,what becomes of the dirt?When you are bathing,what becomes of the water?When you exhale,what becomes of the breath?When the moon disappearsis the moon truly gone?When you ask your teacher,what becomes of the question?If you sit quietly on the matand do not think of this,what becomes of you? A reflection on Case 21…
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SCHMUTZ
Looking out the windowI quickly realize that the windowneeds cleaning, and thenthat the red-shouldered hawkin the nearby tree is carefullystaring back at me. I want to know whatthe hawk is thinking, perhapsthat I am possible prey, ormore likely wondering whyI am so foolish as to livein a strangely large box. The hawk, of course, iswondering…
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ANCESTRY
Children have an innate senseof their ancestry.I was a child of the cityit’s streets my paths, alwaysunder the watchful eyeof my warden – mother. Dirt was to be avoidedat all possible cost,so I never dug my handsinto the fertile soil of myvillage in the heart of Lithuania,or tasted the readying harvestthat dirt would remember. I…
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NATURALIA NON SUNT TURPIA
When did we stop being of the soil and begin to fear it, to tell our children not to touch the ground, it is dirty where once it was only dirt, and we put in our mouths, from time to time if only to drive our mothers crazy. She says if you are going to…
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INTO THE SOIL
When did we stop being of the soil and begin to fear it, to tell our children not to touch the ground, it is dirty when once it was only dirt, and we put it in our mouths, from time to time trying to drive our mothers crazy. She says if you are going to…
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INTO THE SOIL
She wants to know if I want to her gloves while planting so I don’t get dirt deep in my skin and under my nails. There is no way I can explain to her there is a certain joy in placing my fingers into the just wet soil, in moving it with my hands, squeezing…
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an old writer and his words 