October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Cassandra, say what you mean when those hypnotic ideas come to you. Bring them to life–capture them for the natural world like the paintings on glass that we preserve. Your ideas are the fresh spring water gathered at its source in the forest, a place where I have been. We shall travel there, wandering through the underbrush, for we know it is there. We are there in reality, we are there in the imagination. Morning is best for water-gathering, before the delicate heat comes to root in the electronic petals of afternoon. Music is water from the deep.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Mirth in her eyes in the morning. Her eyes are etched and glittering by the door white-hot from fresh sunlight. Breathe easily, say what you mean. The years are dry leaves now. Summer dust touches the chamber. She found a coin engraved with sheaves of wheat. The oldest shadows hide under the newest. Dark cherries are the design on her personal correspondence, and now she must write a letter. All of her letters are self-portraits, but she has a passion to break through to her reader. She is otherwise imprisoned. Corresponding with a musician, she can be sonorous.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
A tarnished refrigerator–if I close my eyes I can see it again and move about from room to room. It was a family heritage, with a timepiece that chimed all over everyone. There was a sundial there, where the family played checkers and would drink in the lilac. The destination of the young was to be music and the unreal. Conversation resembled the universal stirrings we sought words for. Only the night sky was a solid, the fixed stars like syllables feeding the imagination. When Rebecca arrived, we spent an hour with her, having apples and chocolate that year.
