No announcement yet.

ENTRY: In Dormancy

  • Filter
  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts

  • ENTRY: In Dormancy

    Before they arrived, I peered through a window and was struck by the silhouette
    of a fine, old red maple. Branches stood exposed by the December attitudes, and I
    wondered why I felt such an attraction to a cycling reminder of mortality, the fractal
    branching like scythes in the evening glow.

    I was unburdened of my reminiscence
    when the first student arrived.

    Contemplative, warm and given to insight reserved yet ripened once voiced, there were
    untold stories hidden behind his smile, a deceptive simplicity over an umber mystery.

    Following was one not inclined to lift his gaze from the floor when sculpting
    his views, and not easily beaten into awe by the romanticizing of self or suffering.

    Each took a seat, and we
    chatted over Dick and Asimov.

    I shifted my balance with the arrival of the kestrel, attentive and willing to join
    the hunt, but with bright eyes demanding absolute control and resolution of the falconer.

    I inwardly chuckled and allowed
    the mirth to translate to a welcome as

    the undaunted Titania swung into her seat, always a lender of openness and steady
    perception, at her neck a leafless tree of silver, reminding me of an unanswered reverie.

    This form from nature held sway
    beyond my own entangled

    thoughts, but how did the pulsing green of fresh spring growth
    not take precedence in my winter-woeful mind?

    Nevermind. The sparkle of a gem could not be subsumed by such thinking as he rolled
    into the room, and the facets of his inquiry were designed to cut through glass-set walls.

    Our group was nearly complete.
    Yet one pup was astray.

    When the musician finally arrived, he brought pumice to our bath of philosophies, using
    the improvising solo to get him through where a time spent with the literature would not do.

    So a complete unit, we were unlike any group I had taught in a decade of Socratic
    occupation. As we folded the themes of post-modern isolation against Kerouac's Mexico,
    Lee's assimilation, Oliver's serpent, and Alexie's glass over heart, I saw a structure
    laid bare before me.

    My six pupils had been dropping their leaves for months as if I stood in a windy autumn
    forest, and on this final day of exploration, I saw an impression of the red maple
    cast over the classroom. In striking perception I was able to see how each student
    branched from the roots of my tutelage.

    Scant further inspection revealed upon each of them a swelling
    red bud, the storage of the potential I had siphoned
    from the earth beneath us, buds destined to leaf out in the fresh
    year and yield fruit to the land about them.

    And it was with this vision that I realized it was not death
    in the architecture of the winter tree, but a renewal in the progress of creation.
    So now when I look upon the bare crown of a red maple,
    I won't see the lack of leaves but the hope of me.

  • #2
    Hi Lella,welcome aboard , keep writing! The kurlman