“Summer left its dry
rustled offerings singing in the wind”
I was aware of the music in the fields today. The grass, and
bushes of a dry Cape Summer, sounds different in the afternoon. They have their
pale coats on, albino grass. Lived life, now offered the seeds for the earth to
continue. I was moved to pick some, put into a glass jar filled with dune sand
instead of water… I still can hear the rustle when they were in the bushes.
They stand silent now next to my bed. Voice still…
Will I leave a sound when I am done? Will I have left seeds
to grow into something fertile. Or will I just blow in the wind, forgotten? The
former is cultivated in my heart… I want to leave something, even if it’s a dry
bone of a memory. A form, a shape.
I want to rustle in the wind tonight, make a noise that’s my
own…
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