Tanner Brockwell

sometimes we think that what is near is far, and what is far is near. sometimes dreams will suffice, sometimes that is nice. sometimes that is the closest we get. i was imagining an orchard again. this time the fruit was on the bough, and where are we now? but an autumn, a harvest, a dearest friend. a year i thought would never end. but the seasons roam, though they return to home. the seasons like a top, spinning around an axis. could you join in a point, our own self center made. and let the world turn, whether we were there or not.

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there is a certain calm about the beach, leaping from stony rock to rock, above the tidal pools. they are different worlds, the life in these shelters, reinvigorated with new waters and yet they have some ancient cause. the stony outcroppings with green seaweeds clinging are the gateway that you enter this new realm. so many different types of life here, fish and microorganisms too. we in a hurried pace, could pass it by, say there is something there, i must hurry to. but the small tidal pools, they are still there waiting. when will you visit again?

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there on the light breeze, the scent of blossoms sweet. and walking in the orchard, you see the rows and rows of trees. the heavier limbs are propped with support beams, often at an angle. holding the limbs that will bear so much fruit.
spring is a fresh a blooming time, all the world is on the edge of new creations. if you go exploring, how many different things you find. and found, explored, adored and mementos. the petals falling form patterns on the orchard grass more complex than carpeting. more depth to this field. and selecting these petals, a small hand, gathering chosen treasures. to save for fall. spring is the complement to autumn. and while we observe the seasons harvest, the mementos of spring, in a trusted place, are found, their faint scent stronger than the memory, stronger than being there.

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sometimes we can’t help but see the smallest event, insignificant, as a visitor from a strange place appears. i saw this small bird outside the window — just sitting there. almost as if he were looking in. his was a new world, to look to the past, he deemed to judge not. just a look of puzzlement, and then he was gone.

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there is an allure in the movement, the whisk of fabrics, skin bare, skin adorned. the energy in the room of motion, emotion, the eagerness of dancing as a prelude to significant events. a dance is a ritual, not so much scripted, but allowed to flow free. and in dancing we find ourselves, in the motion, we create an island of thought. when we are truly alone, having found the center, we move to return, to embrace, to hold near what we hold dear.

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i was remembering summer days, and the soft caress of the sun on my face. i was remembering idle moments, and thinking of how special it is to share. i was lost in a reverie of the sanctity of nature. all this wrapped in several lines. is such reflection normal? it matters not, for i find comfort in the mortar, the cement of words that are laid in building a pinnacle. and oft the most important word is last.

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dreams are a metaphor and yet — yet they are a fact. they are with us, hardly do we shut our eyes but the phantoms of images are there. real and unreal, the imagined and the made. we think sometimes they are alien, full of strangeness we find oddly familiar, a deja vu of the night. they are our very refuge, the retreat we find from the days long burdens, they are the moment our physical bodies can fly. mostly in my dreams i am grounded, but sometimes i soar. that sort of falling forever feel. with active guidance. up above it all. those are some of my favorite types of dreams. other times the visitors in dreams startle and surprise, someone we barely like. may show up, unannounced, a transgressor of the night. in the morning you are left to wonder why you had them in a dream.

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a fantasy gripped me today. i had to write, there was a missive of the weather, and in synchronization. the story of passage in my future. it was unwritten until i stumbled upon the words. i knew that saving them now, would mean i saved them for the future. later i listened to Danielewski and found it apt.

i think there are similarities in the two most recent pieces on the weather, it is portentous like only the new winds blow in new worlds. i think if i ever leave words behind me i leave life as well. man is alive with words. speaking, thinking and hearing. what more realistic description of life itself?

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this evening i am recovering from a week long cold. it has mainly been sinus pressures. an occasional cough, and well i thought i’d kicked it, but the reoccurance of verse.

an interesting piece it reminds me of futures. it starts about the expectation of the rain. and through a repeating structure describes how the rain will come.

i think that my memories of rain are some of the most vivid. growing up i remember a metal roof that amplified every drop of rain that fell. when it hailed or stormed you always heard it.

the roof was so high, that condensation would fall back on the sub-ceiling. i used to dream about that roof, i never went up on it, but i saw the underside of the rigid corrugated tin.

anyway this was a pleasing interlude.

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