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Images of Echoes (words and graphics by a. leon miler)

January 15, 2013
Larkspur from the Gila

Larkspur from the Gila

Images of Echoes

Images of echoes bouncing off the mountain sides, like the facets of a gem, the sounds sparkle and gleam far past the light’s fading moments, and disappear into the vagueness of the night. Time blow no more through these gates. No more cold winds, chill memories blowing stray rumors, like barking dogs at dusk.

She had a voice for singing sad songs and slow lullabies. She said she’d never be leaving as she walked out the door. I guess I could have been mistaken; she could have said she’d never say “goodbye.” I’ve been told nothing’s sung better than a successful hyperbole. I’m growing old wearing blue jeans and t-shirts; a handful of yesterday’s pearls strung between bits of tarnished silver; where the ancient paths cross the freeway going south.

So turn the music off, but the silence won’t do. On the desert floor where the road runners run, the ground is warming, breeding this afternoon’s dust devils.

There are pilgrims on the freeway going south looking for holy places they will not find. To those bound for slavery, to slavery they must go. To those bound for freedom, to the struggle they must go. One road is easy, though it has a bitter end; the other road promises nothing but a path and a hope.

Nothing happens for no reason, sometimes it’s just meant to be, like buying a repo and calling it home. “My sorrow is your joy”; sleep in peace, dream sweet dreams. When the morning comes there will still be time; still be time to finish all that you will finish, still time to stand in the sunshine; there will still be time as long as there is air to breathe.

Images of echoes bouncing off the mountain sides, like the facets of a gem, the sounds sparkle and gleam far past the light’s fading moments, and disappear into the vagueness of the night. Time blow no more through these gates. No more cold winds, chill memories blowing stray rumors, like barking dogs at dusk.

She had a voice for singing that rumbled through the dark like a transient thunder storm passing to leave the stars washed and brilliant, cast across the sky. When she arose, she shook loose her robes and scattered stars across the distant unknown; brilliant sparks, things yet to be seen. We were in the Gila wilderness; there were voices in the wind, whispering and singing, laughing and dreaming out loud; I saw them, the stars scattered abroad, streaking across the sky, and then fading into the night. The big dipper had rotated around, leaving Polaris ever north, telling me morning was not that distant, and then she smiled when she glanced down at me, arms outstretched like the sun’s rays reaching over the horizon, reaching out to embrace the coming day.

Asters were strewn across the meadow forming their own constellations, flirting with bees. By the water, the night blue larkspur and yellow columbine nodded in the morning light. The scrub jays in the pine trees hopped down, checking our breakfast benevolence as we drove away.

She shook loose her robes and scattered stars across the distant unknown...

She shook loose her robes and scattered stars across the distant unknown…

Yellow Columbine

Yellow Columbine

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