I don’t want to write. It hurts too much. Scraping together words with any measure of meaning feels like scraping the flesh of my heart together to form a beat and a plea: Please work….
I want to go to the silent valley. Where the birds have begun to call and I can remember what I have forgotten. The snow is melted. The ground is raw and wet, but my feet can walk bare.
I want to go to the silent valley. Where nobody talks. Where I might hear angels sing.
My desire can take root there. I cultivate it in red clay, let it cake my fingers and harden in the warming sun. See every crack like the lines in the skin of my fingers, desire the imprint that will always give me away.
I want to go to the silent valley. Where I can cry until I am spent and then sleep, where dreams cannot touch me and worms stay where they belong, in their holes in the ground. Then I will wake with a coming to life and the skins of the past peel beneath the gentle fingers of the sun.
I want to go to the valley where the only noise is the sound of mossy grass pushing up through earth and curling around my toes. Where only the water talks, a gurgle answered by a chuckle, the lapping waves take hands and tumble over stones together. They greet these feet with invigoration and I kneel to cup them in my hands.
Come with us, the current beckons with a tug. We know where life is.
I want to go to the silent valley, where the stream leads to a pool and the waves recede into tremors and the tremors become still. There, waist-deep in water, a breeze stirs the grass and lifts the hair off my neck. The willow branches whisper and stir the surface of the water.
There the silence of the valley is broken by the murmur of his voice on the wind, and I am listening.