Akasha
We sit for the telling of her very bad news, and in her flurry, a careless gesture, the back of her hand bats her mug of black coffee from the table.
The scene unfolds in twenty four frames, thick in anticipation.dread.beauty.hope.white noise.silence.fear.light.energy.metamorphosis.loss.regret.redemption.
a container no longer containing black coffee expressing its freedom in fan form
In the inevitable clatter, a surprise gasp as she launches to her feet, a sharp declarative report of pottery vs tile, the utter joy in the splat and reach of black claiming its territory. I feel the joy register in my face.
With a hand at her throat, our gaze enjoins, and there is levity. She softens and whispers ayam
I am, sooo sorry, she continues I have made a mess of this. She titters away to attend to it. The thought becomes this is news, and news just is.
Dogboy, An interesting poem. I like the imagery you create and there is a certain tension trying to reconcile the seemingly mundane with the deeper wisdom being communicated.
