Making It a Quartet

I am the wellspring, the aquifer, lying hidden beneath layers of jade and granite; the lode of antimatter possibilities waiting for the string of my theory; waiting for my oaken bucket to descend and draw my waters to light. I am the creation, long awaiting happening, as the tum-de-dum-bump draws salt to shoulder and cheek, off the cuff, where the blind and the shuttered can taste the sight of it. I am both painter and painting, swirling palette with brush, blending the checkmate toward the color unseen; enamel never touching canvas with anything but the fading rainbow. I am the needle, plunged into subterranean and subcutaneous darkness, filled with cure, culled from the venom of the mythical serpent, and yet, I am also the fable.

And, though she cannot see it…she is. She is the diviner, the dowser who walks and bends to the edge of what only she can see; the rainmaker, the Abenaki, the whirling dervish that dances and chants on the promise and floor of buried nourishment. She is the prairie grass reborn, cured of the evils of man. She waves in the breezes that no longer bring dust. She has rebirthed the wild buffalo and illuminated the red road. She is the quark, the gluon, the undiscovered particle that offers protons to my weak force swirl. She has slain the bear with only the imagined arrow and the bow of faith, and I have fallen into my own waters. She is the final decimal of my pi; the missing piece of every circle. She is the kindness I know but never find.

As waves break near the closing shore, and breezes twirl foam in cotton candy funnels, I float alongside awaiting the rogue emergence; awaiting the pending eye, when wave and funnel lay flat in the footprint, and sea and shore join again in the natural convergence. And then I may alight on her shore, and bring razor shell and lucre and sand once more to melt and blend in the burning star, and witness the boiling chamber surface the flow of hot birthing, and pray to the unknown that she may yet again stand and climb as the sea cools the ejection of my creativity; as wind whistle and gull screech and silent light notate on the natural staff.

And as drill and derrick descend and pump, I am learning to swim; kicking to my surface; stroking to my shore; diving to my oyster. No longer can I tread my waters yet no longer can I drown. I need to swim to standing; land to kind; live as I have never allowed.