backs full of arrows

We are all touching inside the secret river

Jay Leeming

It’s weeping season.

Not crying, no, forget about the trickle - monsoon. From all directions love comes flying and the thud of each arrow knocks the breath out of me. Their iron summons my rivers. Somehow it’s about those lumbering, awkward half-grown swans, who were hatchlings one second ago. It strikes the bell, hammers home how earthquake real love is. 

It’s carried in the smell of a summer day, that holds the same fragrance as in the cooling garden where I was a child under the maple and we’d love each other mine de rien. The sun would endlessly linger. A summer day, this oh-so precious wine, once uncorked - taste it, tomorrow its magic will be gone. And life gives me one more, and then one more, like a fistful of cherries in the season. Love songs fly into my fingers and in the night I’m woken by the sound of a ladybird, playing my guitar. How could I ever not make art of this?

I feel in my marrow the constellation myths, that the love between us will rise from our discarded flesh to glimmer in the night, painting the stars with our darkness, whispering to them how we loved like the high winds on the mountain. You and you, and you too, you know who you are, the web of lightning. We are facedown in the great secret, backs full of arrows and gulping it down like thirsty horses.

#love #tribe #summer #constellations #soullove #art #arrows