Postcard #24: Buddy-Blossomed Face-First Frenzy-Fling

I sense you on the wind, feel you in the sunshine, see you drizzle-drop in the morning mist, even notice you curled-up in fetal position — about to open — sleeping upright from the dewy bark with just the hairs of your back clinging to the tree. I must write in the dirt with my fingers, delighting at the way it cakes underneath my nails, licking-poking my head out of a tent like turtles do out of their shells, tongue-tasting the air, wondering who else sends the frogs a-singing so early before the dark of night, before the set of sun…

My home here is like a cabin — piece of pie slice to sleep in — goblin hut cave-like heaven with sky light letting in the moon beam as much as it does the shine. Living here is being in love on an island and sheltered in the shade in the green in the cool damp, facing trees and juniper, stinking always of leaf and meadow and grass… Are you there, buddy? I project my thoughts like doves, like pigeons shot into the sky, in bullets, in pollen-particles flying, making everything cry and sneeze and sizzle and drip and honey. I am congested with sad joys and mournful wonder as I picture you blooming paired with every leaf and animal dancing along the walk but invisible away from me as I talk. Your body is coming, slowing unfurling, buddy-blossoming, your skin a hairy velvet that always snags me, enthralls me… Is that how you drink the rain? Reminds me of new born’s skin — that human fur — and the way his chin felt before a beard would show, and then in the wild ways it refused to grow, long in some places, barely fuzz in other places. Buddy, your face opens and turns from a fist, relaxes, in a twist smoothes out, starts to stretch, arching upwards in a yawn-that-is-not-a-yawn. Somehow you resisted the frost, you, delicate-strong and sweet as candy melting yet you do not melt when I dare to touch you. You were once the seed, once the bud, now a dozen buddies opened up, little pink explosions that tempt me to dive, face first, into you and never want to come up…

The bursting-blossom-time means you will disappear come summer. You will disappear into thousands of decaying petals. Buddy-buddies-blossom-pinkies will all fall into browns — one day full and bright, the next only the fullness of leaves with no more traces of you on the trees. I want to sing as I hide, wrap myself up in the branches, sleep in perfumed arms of you, but a bee gets caught in my throat as I inhale, and it stings as it comes out, leaving me silent and hoarse, heaving in my reach for want of the softness of you…

The bees treat you carefully, devout in their service, you tremble at their touch, out they push you open completely, you the flower-that-isn’t-a-flower, just the first bloom and no longer the virgin, bee-trampled. Buddy, you have unfolded, and your new-born-ness is frightening, and I am just another one of those things — a rock, perhaps an oak, or even a dying building growing better as I decay because I am being overtaken by vines, trees, animals, vagrants, decorated with graffiti — the sort of thing that seems to last in a forever to you. Or I could be like the bees, my face another thing to catch your pollen, dust my cheeks with your pinks, whites, yellows, and sneeze and weep out more of you where ever next I may go. I fling my face into your many petals and frame myself a pretty picture in a desperate attempt to preserve you, fuse you into my body. How unfair it seems that you eventually have to leave the tree. I close my eyes and see the petals… the renegade kites escaping, launched like tiny origami cranes, or specks of gore, lipstick marks from a stolen romance, Apollo’s kisses released beyond-the-seen and passing into spirit. All of it a frenzy of scattered love letters torn in a hurry with peels of hysterical laughter coming from some distant woman making fun of my lament.

Buddy, how can anyone pass by you and not indulge in your sweetness? I cannot be the only fool who flings herself around the tree trunk and pushes her face and hair and everything into all this pink of you! Every year I look for the chance to be with you. And every spring’s end I am a widow without ever having been married.

It is not the Crone who is the representative of death, the true personification is the Maiden for She just emerged from the womb that once was the tomb. Is that not where you came from, buddy? The darkness of soil, where all things dead are buried, and where all seeds are placed to grow. Persephone Herself must have held you as a seed just as all mothers cradle their infants. As I embrace your tree, I can see how you once were — inside that once black space — your eyes half-open in the lap of her darkness as She smiled and hummed, vibrating through the crust of your shell, shaking the surface of the soil, signaling the last bits of ice and snow to melt, tip-tapping the roots of the trees gently to wake as she prepares to kiss her husband good-bye… She has thousands, millions, billions of you, buddies, in her skirts, so as She rises to greet her Mother, you all are deposited in all the places all over the earth. You burst in a fireworks-like-display of brilliance of color to celebrate the reunion of mother and daughter, and it’s all so depression-defying it’s dizzying, daunting!

As your petals and the feather-like-fineness of my hair meet and tangle, I crush against you one last time, close my eyes as I lift my face up to the sun and fill up with warmth. The girl in me wants to bite into the bark. I am caught in every poem ever written about you, dear buddies. Your pollen makes me itch and almost give way to sneeze, I feel tears cloud my eyes again, yet this sweetness I treasure, and in these words, I make forever.


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