Ceremony Hydrangeas in bright blue globes guard the graveyard steps. Somewhere beyond that long gray wall a ceremony for the dead is underway, and the only sense I have of it are warbled words off in the distance, barely audible. What they mean I cannot fathom, can only guess as I pass by, and death deserves more than a guess. The chanted quavers, strangely arresting, invite me to approach their source, but I cannot stay — there is much to do, places to go, and I must move past this place of faint hypnotic sounds, move on to those sights of patterned life I know so well, know without guessing, safe, lustrously reassuring and waiting like dreams. Some other time I will return to understand those words.
Two by Peter Scacco Leonids Eyes gazing, filled with the myths of immense constellations swirling around November skies, awaiting a swarm of flares across the black vault of night an expectation never met. These sudden, slashing skate marks, minutes apart, tell of truths that pass in the blink of an eye from brilliance to memory like all the days from our youth, peripheral, fleeting statements passing unobtrusively, not in flamboyant fireworks that glitter down on us as dreams, but in a slow procession of delicate glimmerings unfolding with indifference and consuming tedium, measured out unevenly over the span of a lifetime.
FLAR / Spring 2016 / Volume 4, Issue 1
52