My Heart Droppeth Stop

A beautiful old woman would row her boat up river every day of the week, and row gently swaying the river water to trickle her admissions of progress in her endeavor. The jungle nested her presence and so it seemed that she belonged in each instance forever. There her black gown rags made a dress, a rope a belt, her enlarged figure lost, her wooden boat calling everyone to let her through; she would reach to one side, climb her way out with a dexterity and ease of movement that was nurtured not by athletic might but by an essence that had welded itself within her environment. In her presence the birds gave up their magnetic compasses, the seeds would know when to sprout, the surrounding jungle would blush green, a way of telling her everything sorrowing alive. Her oars put away on the side of the river where they belonged, oars indiscernible from fallen twigs, her boat tied to branches faded the discerning line between river and jungle.

River jungle morning, mist gliding its way like a snake, filtering through crevices guided by no more enduring goal than to equally disperse its freshly beauty, occasionally falling victim to rapacious leaves turning mist into jungle dew. But call itself the air the mist would breathe, and make the morning pretty with its blanketing mastery, where Sol would soon set it all ablaze and yet cause not a single fire, mist stolen dew coercing Sol to be gentle with the forest lush.

Old woman would gather her things, a wooden bucket, a bat-like stirring tool, a pouch with some freshly picked mushrooms and roots; and a bundle of wood, partially tied to her waist for support, she was a fort. Invincible her right thigh was suited with a white ointment from the bark of a tree, ointment there to prevent the continued falling of her flesh where it had started to abandon. Soothing too but this was unfelt by this woman that had long ago married discomfort so as not to feel it. And gathering all of mostly nothing, she would pilgrimage to a natural hut formation, accomplished by two tree trunks forcefully embracing. There she made camp her home. Home for her, a place you go to sleep. Home assaulted by a canopy of trees, unsuited for the rainbows that would hover above and not dash in to disturb her endless days, expressionless, a smile from her would have startled. Occasionally a trickle of sunshine would tumble through the leaves, bounce around through the prism dew and cement a temblor of rainbows that would flirt their seconds long lives, like pigeons bathing on a fountain. Yet not a smile would trickle from her lips. She would stare the dancing rainbows like beastly eyes upon a mosquito that might sooner land to suck one’s blood. But the sprinkled sparkled tumbling rainbow dance was over before emotions about them could harden, before they could be given a name or a reaction, dance away they would.

And they would dance away because there was greater shine within her, a glow emanating from this woman’s essence, not a jungle glow, not a glow fermented by the mushrooms, not a glow to come spirited from the heavens, but deep within her darkness glowing, a furnace radiating rays of solemn brilliance all around her, showering with crystal stars as far as the vicinity would go. And in her palms was too this glow, where if she placed them near her face, a pearl glow would surrender rays of positive numbers. Many eight’s and nines, and fives, only ray emitting numbers, only positive numbers that when added multiplied strange joys and sent messages to informants of the forest green, the river clear, the humid air, the life fertile mud. Her palms would birth these numbers, and again none into the negative, all summing shapes like eight her favorite, though she was secretly more in love with nine, and it was such a secret that she would not tell this to herself.

She had those magic hands, holy hands that could baptize a deity, hands that could give birth to a child, hands that could reach into the ill heart and cure it, hands that seemed to float above all things while seemingly touching all; yes they were grained and pained by years, who could say how old she was but must have numbered hundreds of years, it takes time to learn how to oar a boat up stream with nothing but twigs, it takes time to be able to leave concern or humor, it takes hundreds of years to spring enough energy of self to heal the sickly trees, the wounded rabbits, and it takes hundreds if not thousands of years to urge the jungle a greater glow. And so her hands, gentle inspirations, could still look weathered by the passage of time, by what must have been hard work, though it seems impossible to imagine that all things did not lift themselves and give themselves to her without effort. And her face, yes a few wrinkles, but they looked smoothed throughout her face, so many wrinkles her time had gathered that they had formed a gathered embrace of her face giving it a conformity of being where it was pleasant to see her and say to one’s self, this woman has beautiful skin, her dark brown eyes are crystals, her lips hidden because they have no smiles to speak, no words to utter, no kisses to dispense, and here in her black raggedy attire, she is a monument to infinite harmonies.

Rest you bludgeoned dog, she will caress you and make you heal your hate, rest you angry youth, she will curl your insecurities to oblivion, where you might not guard nor frisk the energy of the universe for savage horrors to tame your virgin fragile might. Oh and to the forgotten mistress of the night rest thy lovely aches of the heart, rest them to sleep my dear for when will quell thy coldness with her embrace, she will teach you to kiss on the red lips where souls will migrate into thy bosom enriching the tenderness of your heart with manic adoration. Oh to warm thy innards, to cuddle all blood types, to enter sanctuary before religions dare, to born a saint, her hands majesty have done.

RC