Dreierlei von der Minze, zweierlei von der Liebe. Schade sie nur konzeptuell zu erfassen, die Minze. Sie vollends zu schmecken, den ihren Reichtum in sich aufzunehmen, hinter der Liebe im eigenen Sein zu verblassen. Eine Nuance vom Federkiel bis zu deren Spule, vom Atlas bis zur Axis. Die Minze halte ich auf vorgehaltener Hand, reibe sachte ein Blatt zwischen Zeigefinger und Daumen, und erwecke weitere Sinne. „Ein Blatt“, ertappe ich meinen Gedanken, und sehe es wachsen, vom Samen bis zum Blatt. Folge dem Lauf über Stiel zu Wurzel, Verzweigung folgt auf Verzweigung, sammelt sich in Erde, klammert sich an feinen Stein, findet Nährboden, weitet sich aus. Gräser von demselben Naturgesetz geleitet, Bäume auch. Spricht hier die Minze mit der Apfelsaat, nicht meine Sprache, wohl auch, wenn Sprache vom Herzen rührt, nicht vom Kopf. Zieht den Kern, weiss ihn wohl, hütet ihn, hilft ihm gedeihen. Sodann die Frucht im Sonnenstrahl erwärmt, Minze nun Säuglingsschwester, ein Schauer erweckt mich, mein Herzen lacht – dieselbe universelle Rede, dem Broca-Areal weit entlegen. Der Witz ist die Sprache zu verkennen, die Minze und Liebe vereint, die Minze Liebe ist. Ein Schmaus dann Tee und Saat

, Blatt und Frucht, heimisch unter Sonnen’s Glanz oder Wolkenmeer; beide gleich. Es bleibt nur jenem gewahr zu werden, was schon immer war.

The calling persists. An emerging feeling , friend or foe, reminding, yet tormenting. That inescapable drumming on the window to the universe. A complacent waking and stirring of invisible desire, mysteriously and persistently materializing just as all falls silent. Then pressing for action. Intrusive almost, without providing direction, at least not such as the mind seeks. The incessant knock, the untamed beast, forcefully rattling the binding chains. A cry for freedom in the electric muttering, passionately prodding a deeper longing, striking fertile ground. Without doubt there is a recipient to the call. A seed deliberately plunged into the waiting soul , one for each, distinct by design. A roar in a shell, aching to be freed, to plaster the canvas with life’s transmission.

Maybe choice, or fate, or the breathing ripples of being in this worldly experience. I am reminded of resistance or acceptance, taking hold of the inner force as if reaching out for the hand that guides the blind , a trusting endeavor. But really, I question choice: when life knocks, I answer. Lead on.

Meet hunger, perched on the windowsill, barking at stomach. What’s another kind of hunger? Rage or want, or rage in want, or appetite and craving: restless dark sky, expectant orange hue emerging still on mother’s horizon.

Fiercer yet: troubled soul in open water, thirst for wave and thunder, break keel, drown hull, the red in pomegranate spills.

No – really, the contours of a waking smile, sooner the muscles stretch, already discernible, like the child’s hand, an extension of pen and paper forming a round shape, top of page, reaching outward rays upon rays. Sun and smile – who would have known to find calm in stormy seas?

A plea for patience, guidance, help. One a signpost

, a sudden stirring from within. Scattered seed, weaved into earth, a threaded needle pricks and pricks until it’s heard. The other an urgent query for direction. It must be now. Handheld desperation, when thousand winding lanes come clashing and human babe must cross.

Certainty is fleeting when governed by thought. Dismiss belief. This one is by far more convincing and trustworthy, though it cannot be owned. Sign over sailor to sea, child to parent, soul to origin. The circling hand prolongs my sun, an always longing met and nourished.

Rather the circumstances were different – smoke obscures the poster hanging on the brick wall. Bold letters droop heavily from the worn canvas. At the right-hand corner, just where the wall slips out from underneath the banner, waits a little space. Waits on the soft graze of nearly folded wings. A brief chirp addresses no one in particular. Maybe the return home hastily announced. The swift breeze skips along the block as if to hide and remain unknown. A hurried peek-a-boo extended breath across the suspended drape lifts it by the hem , permeates a single moment with whirl and swoosh and uncoordinated flutter – hides bird and voice and wing, spells freedom in all caps. Something resonates within.

The miracle sea only I can see, like this. The obverse of my daily dose of thoughts on display as my heart glides just slightly above the skin of the impermanent sea, so as not to touch or disturb. Plainly a game of silent approximation, both never seemed more alike. The throbbing skin, the four chambers softly breathing hello, the aorta pulsing life in the depths beyond sight – the heart of the sea. I marvel at its membrane, stretching far. As it imitates my inner drum, I too cross the void in sudden compulsion to belong. Every encounter leaves an imprint on the organism. Game shifts to dance

, an orchestrated, spontaneous and unmet, forceful advance in space, time and form.

Instantaneously I arrive at the other side. Light across the sea. The not-knowing, but trusting, the hazy outline is forever enough. I find complacency in the wisdom of my heart as it too is swept across the shore, here and there in perfect synchrony.

The window ajar, I am visited by the wind. It takes courage to cross the threshold into my dark room. I am sat right there, right where it enters, where it picks at my bare chest like a hummingbird wrestling the air to steady itself and dive its narrow bill into the nectar , forceful, decisive, yet gentle.

It trespasses not. I welcome each cooling brush, each purposeful touch possessing me. There it is that “me”. As I hold it up to the light to distill more understanding, the wind sweeps it of my hand. Once fist, a tight clutch, a wistful holding on, now that – a palm simmering underneath a light, letting go. Whom to trust more than the descending wind, to break and swallow this manifestation of “me”? And thus , to gesture my self-portrait to follow , to cross over from the membrane that infused it with so many labels into a novel experience.

I hesitate to call the wind by name, to sprinkle it with animate human properties, to say I hear a murmur. Just then the same hummingbird picks out my thoughts, one by one, a quick spasm, one more line of thought struggles against, attempts to connect and disappears. The last rebellion of „me“.

Out, out, wind hollers – perhaps. Farewell room and window, cone of light resting on palm, once taut, now soothed and calm, farewell hummingbird, your wingful tatter , unwavering too. Each stroke of wing – surely there is an in-between, if we look so very close. Universal traveler, wind, in might and meagre – farewell „me“. Free thyself. Ride wind, ride.

A cream top, Massachusets on my mind, a door ajar, lost thoughts curled up in dormant dreams, floating towards the heavens. And still I stand. And gaze. And drop – drop in and out of whispers probing my heart in heated passion for the untold, the limitless

, the beyond.

I want nothing more but to stand and behold – to be stood on and beheld by shape and sound and texture as I peel into this existence extending me tenfold. I shudder from the inside out – crippled, churning mind – as the eternal enters me, expands me.

To be continued. (maybe)

Mortal – stretcher at the ready. I will carry you across the oceans, sit with you. The cap of my toe peeking out from underneath the sand. I love you sweet uman. The grains I fold too , fold them into the depths of my heart. Little globes, worlds in their own right. You – other – niched in a sweet spot , I am your back, spine and muscle. Ambition hails my hushed attempt at kissing away your scarlet blush. I dissolve , then bow, then bow, and dissolve, with me the morsels of earth , fragments of uman, dazzle, dazzle a pink, lush tone on your placid skin, echoing life, thundering through me, occupying me. I want nothing more than to be free.

I am madly in love with the cherry tree. The last leaf on the stalk, the pit in the sink, underneath its flesh, unwrapped and exposed. I am madly in love with the cherry tree. And I sing of the petals like a peddler strutting through the village gates, of one up high on a lonesome hill, standing in the midday sun. The crown a shrivel and a scribble on a sketch book left behind, out of pages old stories in rhythmic verse retold:

Ol‘ cherry tree, born and raised of long
A somber tale your bless’ed child
Say wind and storm, and sun and rain
My heart, your steady thump, go on

Fresh now the seasons strive
Pungent air of dauntless growth
Cross branches soon in outward reach
Buds and blossoms eager thrive

Awe for freedom, ease and pain,
Out by stigma, style and stem,
There a flower, notch and pen
Draw and capture

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, wondrous lust
Dipped in ink and sealed complete
In loves fit wool and mane.

My inner may well resemble a sinkhole. A cavern of dust, putrid soil, how can something grow in this emptiness? The book remains. On my lap, J.D. Salinger’s „The Catcher in the Rye“. My little title of freedom when there is nothing but rain covering my plot. New York, I yearn to be swallowed by your streets. So far, the big apple, I can tell you that. But I would rather sing of these very pages, mechanically stuck between two covers, title and all, print and story. Phonies.

I was referring to the song of a specific fragrance held in these pages as I inhale deeply a formula of time. Reading with my eyes closed turning into a habit for my nostrils. Oh , what wealth in this heated humdrum. The nectar honey is; worn wood dipped into the golden mass by a goddess, resting her head upon her hand, entangled in vines, lapping at her existence. Then set out to dry in the warming rays of the sun , twisting themselves into the fibrous tissue in dire need to unfold the deep , comforting brush of texture I call home.

All of me sinks, absorbs, melts, yes, melts and dissolves. I want to say fades, fades into an untold fairy tale of pages and their lasting fragrance, where really, I discover now, the action is not mine. The inaction essentially unlocks the magic. I am the vessel, on the receiving end of bliss. I will say this: eternity hides in the crease of two pages. Just close your eyes and breath.