whispering wind

john f. marok. red door cottage. oil/canvas

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as tumbleweed watched in transfixion, in mesmerization, in stillness, the clear, simple, perfect act of raven feeding her young he felt that beauty was being poured into his mouth. like honey. like molasses. like maple syrup. it overflowed his throat, brimmed over his tongue, teeth, lips onto his chin, down his neck. he cupped his hands, let it pool into his palms, smothered it all over his head, baptizing himself with beauty's primal energy, shrouding himself with the luminosity it begged forth, awakening his heart with sensations that lay dormant until this event, until this invocation, until this intervention of devotion, until this wave of rhapsodic liquid light soaked him to the floor heavying and softening him like lead, dense and opaque, radiant with the miracle of the illumination of affirmation.

*****