Times and again, I pause — and picture how blessed I am. I enjoy the beauty of words.
I love when I see Boshontomonjori dreaming of me — a boatman sailing far.
I hear her call. I respond sometimes, as she waves her hand, plucking the last lily from the shore. I go sailing. The waves of hunger in the river push me afar.
I tend to forget her. Is it my fault?
She is so beautiful. Her eyes sparkle with pearls. Her nose swirls with droplets of flower buds. Her hair swings swiftly, shading the fierce sun. She breathes in a harmony that shackles all the pain in heaven and earth. Yet I forget her call — the call of revival. Is it my fault?
Do I regret? Do I pity myself?
She would be standing there like a tree, numb for me. I like her in a white gown, with flickering ornaments reflecting the oblique rays. I like her when she wears her crown of leaves — green, alive, and full of life. I like her bangles — woven from green leaves and rocky mountain cherries, tangled with deep blue peacock feathers. How beautiful she is.
I wonder why only words are all I’ve got. I wish I could paint — cast my brush upon her chin, draw the fine lines of her eyes, her hands, her fingers. I would borrow colors from the night sky when the moon is starving — in darkness — to paint her hair, so long the sky would fall short of color.
Even the waves crushing stones somewhere in the Mediterranean couldn’t fathom the unrest of her soul. The soothing wind of spring, the calmness of the soil, the birds chirping, the willow’s new life — all seem so pale and lost, without her. I miss her. I understand — she is there, waiting for me.
Yet I am a boatman, sailing after life. I have fish to catch, banks to reach, targets to meet.
She is a tree, a bird, sometimes the clouds above my head. Her contour feathers give her a distinctive silhouette in my heart of woe. She plays the viola near Saturn, as dusk’s lovely shades lose to night’s loneliness. I, in the unrest of wind, in the middle of nowhere, sometimes toast her with a glass of chilled Prosecco.
I know — if I had been a cannoneer, my howitzer could never point at the sky.
Because she is there, in my sky.
She is near.
There.
Where?