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Friday, March 21, 2014

Haircut

the snow whirling outside—
the light in the upstairs bedroom
cast on the dark, frozen backyard

black clippings
of hair softly falling
on the hardwood floor 

 
Rain in the Wardrobe, drawing, Borisse, 2013



copyright
boris gregoric
march 2014

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Tashkent or Red Sun, painting, 1998

Red Sun, oil/canvas, ca. 1998, Borisse

For the Path Leads On

 
FOR THE PATH LEADS ON

 
In My Honey Colored Meadow by Boris Gregoric

A peculiar man, but sprightly, of fast walking temper, likes to vary his daily walks. Sometimes the constitutional takes him four blocks north, around the ramp, up and across the hillside cemetery. He follows the paved pathway that leads into the woods; through the shaded alley of cypresses where, during the hottest summer day, it stays cool, the path filled with muddy ruts.  Early in the morning, the stifling heat yet to rise, the grass sparkles, awash in dew.  Once in a while, a deer shyly climb up to the edge of the ravine, grazing around the grave markers. Confident, yet keenly aware of the morning observer. If he makes an unexpected move, the deer at once hop quickly back down into the impenetrable thicket of the slope.

Sometimes deer’s large orbits of eyes stare at him for a long instant. What goes on in deer’s head, he wonders, and the beast might wonder in its own, wild, non-human way of what goes on inside that strange biped staring at him with equal curiosity, keeping him away from grazing. But soon the spell breaks and the path beckons on, on into the woods from whence he hears a pair of loving cardinals chirrup and trill.  For the happiness of being in the forest is an organic instinct that cannot be suppressed.  The force of life unstoppable. How can one shut it off, even if facing death, which seems subservient to it, the larger force? What a thrill this joy of aloneless in the woods.  Quicksilver thoughts flash instantaneously in the mind as part of everything living.  Off the path, then, deeper into the woods, around the fork in the gravel path, skipping the pothole, waving off the insistent moth. A pair of cardinals will follow you, traveler, away from the suburban homes littering the top of the meadow away from the cemetery, private enough, safe enough, for the cardinal couples, it is known, mate for life—chasing, cajoling, calling to each other, winter, spring, summer and fall.   
Then too the cardinals stay behind, and alone you walk on, for the path leads on (…)


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by the Author