I had a story to tell
of the wild night
and the East wind
that came to steal time.
I forgot the words.
I lost the plot.
I couldn’t find the cadence
to lead you down
to the edge of the forest,
where the witches dwell.
I couldn’t remember
what I was supposed to do
with my hands.
Do I keep them folded
in my lap
and let the story speak itself?
Or do I use them
to emphasize
and illustrate
and make wild gestures
in the places where the story gets good?
You see,
I don’t need you to only listen,
I need you to understand
that the wild night
and the East wind
are deeper themes.
Metaphors,
symbolism,
avatars,
existing in this story
for a particular purpose.
Though it may not seem obvious,
we are having a conversation here,
you and I.
Even if only one of us is talking,
it takes two
to have a good conversation.
One to speak
and one to listen.
Neither one is more important,
but without the other,
each of us is just a madman.
Can you imagine,
me telling this story,
without you to hear it?
Or you,
just sitting there,
listening to nothing?
It’s madness.
So like the wild night,
I draw you from your comfort,
for I offer you
the rare,
the strange,
the bizarre.
And like the East wind,
you drive me to keep telling
the story of the forest
and the witches that dwell within.
We come and go
with the rhythm of the telling,
It’s peaks and valleys,
dark and narrow paths,
that twist between
the black trunks
of Ash and Poplar,
deep into the forest.
Under a dark sky,
the East wind pushes
a torn veil of clouds.
Leafless limbs wave mockingly,
as the detritus
on the forest floor
swirls and rustles
like a stalking animal.
It’s best for us
to keep moving,
for if the witches find us here,
they will trap us
in the parts of the story
that I couldn’t tell.
These words are not mine;
not anymore.
Once off my tongue,
they belong to the ears that hear them.
Of the eyes that read them.
I cast them,
out on the East wind,
and hope
that they are magic.
HG – 2018
