All flesh is grass

All flesh is grass. Krishna walks upon the lawn without one backward look, this is her garden after all. Her mighty steps mould, sometimes mangle the stalky fingers, carve on a track across the green, darkening it with sacrifice, then tinging it, eroding it into gold. No single glance back. Who ever does look at the steps one takes, the steps one steals? We cut our paths through the lives of others, chances we pluck before their vines can tangle us, slow us down, and before they can caress us, touch us.

We are so heavy, yet all flesh is grass. Our meaty leaves are built from breath, upon our masts live sails of web, round chutes follow the wind, bade us the vertical though we only ever walk the horizontal. So many windows in the dew, encased in hoary silk, interminable eyes pointing to heaven, reflecting it in Indra's net, echoes itself in each one drop.

But now her palm parts the web, she loves not spiders, their world entire her hand, but not for long, her fist closes their death over their black carapaces. Pregnant, they crack into caviar, cast their mesh once more, each egg reflecting one another and all without. Indra cackles.

Does the mailman ever mark his strides? Sometimes his letter carries a dearer fare, stumps chiseled from paper cuts, sharp words, and long, blunt embraces.

the Stone, the Mirror and the Hedgehog

Once upon a time, there was a Stone. He lived alone, a pebble, his rounded skin enclosing mystery not only to others, but also himself. He lived mute, a boulder, his voice smothered in the lattice of sial within him. He lived sightless, a rock, his only eye a cataract glossed by the rain.

Within him, a brain of basalt and quartz learned time, touch and the content of himself. He knew of the Gravel upon which he lay, his brothers and sisters. He knew of the Winds, his Chance and Destiny, dictating his story, granting and robbing all that surrounded him, yet never touching his midst. He knew of the Lake, whose waves slowly gnawed his substance away and would one day devour him, would one day know him inside out and so would he know her.

But the Winds, envious, took the Stone in their hands and threw him into the Lake. As he fell, the blazing brushing of the Winds seared his cecity away and let him behold the Lake, a round Mirror. As he touched her surface, the Mirror broke into a myriad pieces and he saw himself as he was: not a single soul but a fragmented phantom, a hundred shards, a million grains of sand. As he watched himself breaking he became thus, a Stone shattered into a thousand thorns, not dry, but carrying a Lake within himself.

Thus was the Hedgehog born. Watch your reflection in his spines, a plain looking glass to your mind...

the Squirrel, the Tree and the Seasons

Once upon a time, upon a little hill, lived a Squirrel and a Tree, who loved each other with an abandon that knew not race nor age. The Squirrel well knew each of the Tree's branches, his lovesome leaves and fragrant bloom, she knew and reveled in the resin that flowed in his veins and gladly ate the fruits he offered her. The Tree well knew each of the Squirrel 's hairs, her tender talons and caring eyes, he knew and delighted in the dew that adorned her fur and lief warded the nuts she offered him.

But Spring soon left the Tree, then Summer came to take his flowers and rot his fruits, then Autumn came to steal his lush leaves, then Winter came to freeze the resin rivers within him. And as each Season passed, the Squirrel asked the Tree: "Why have you changed? Your gifts are gone, our love has lessened." The Tree replied each time: "'Tis but the seasons, do wait a while and I'll be born afresh." But the Squirrel did not believe, and wildly pushed the Tree away with its small mitts. But the Tree would never move.

The end of Winter came at last, and the Tree's life flowed once again, he grew once more; but the Squirrel did not look up to see, but long stared at the dry roots and softly spoke: "You are bark but I am flesh, my colour's fire but water is your life, you are stillness but I am motion. We are too different." She closed her eyes and pushed the Tree with all her might, and so great was her thrust that she fell back and rolled down from the hill. When she did open her eyes, the Tree was nowhere to be seen.

They say, soon after came the fallers and struck down the Tree, and from his body fashioned the pages on which these tales are written. Others claim a Blackbird made its nest within the Tree and stayed, for it knew much of Seasons and their ways, finding gifts in each of them. There are those who say that as the Tree waited for the Squirrel to find her way back, his fruits dried and turned chestnuts. Perhaps you know the End?

The third day Oath

Today is the third day, and neither wind nor rain have shaken the Amaranthine from its captivity. Indeed this morn, when I passed by, it hung torn between two greedy strands, each pulling her to itself. The avarice of the elements took their toll, voiding the flower of its aqua, yet failing in the quest to end its life, fortifying it instead, its petals hardened into a plate mail, guarding the heart, the scarce nectar within.

Thus it floated, a vessel of air whose soul one could not catch. Yet that was not my intent, instead, I wanted but to free it. I cut its ropes and posed it in a pocket by my chest, to warm it with my pulse. Those beats have been yours, now I have placed you in my crimson book to rest, let me now turn the page, an empty one I need this eve.