Spin
The jujube trees from up above
I know of a world above. A world where thousands of jujube flowers open to the sun. In this world above honeybees teem. In this world above, dragonflies flutter with the confidence of fighter pilots. The flowers of the moringa attract black bees.
You have to wonder what this looks like to the birds. You have to wonder when the sun shifts and shines on this back balcony and how you might establish this spot as a space where creation can happen. Creation that does not need you once the seed has been planted. You did not even create the conditions for the jujube to rise this high. You did not create the winter.
When was the last time you saw snow? Toronto in February? It had to be. You walked through the streets, new love with a hand in your pocket. She reached. You knew the trees would have leaves once again. You knew that this path that brought the two of you together could not have been predicted.
You know that–well, you think that if it does not freeze you may have thousands of jujubes in the spring.
What is next in a city? What is left when able to take a different view, to see from a perspective you may have never used? Where do the birds and bees come from and what might your son look like? Why does the rain stay away for so long? You know the answer to this. You know what might be said in the Tao Te Ching. To know rain. To know the presence of green one must understand what is brittle. The Tao would bend. The Tao would not spend too much of the journey on thought.
Instead, take presence in the bees. Which one might have been the first to arrive at the flowers? Did they witness Cardinal Gray bang her head into the glass window up here? Did they see Mama Rat chew a hole through the screen? There are many questions when life comes from another perspective.
Saturday becomes the day when nothing needs to be done. A day that is yours. A day without requirements and yet during this time the brain creates necessity. The brain does not realize the time of the body is limited. Not in the way you might think. Not in the way a sidewalk cracks for the roots of a tree.
Sacrifice means to let the thoughts carry. Imagine how breath becomes sound through a small brass hole. This breath that has carried those who have died in the hearts of those still living. To know what this means, consider the way the sufis spin. But then consider the way others are forced not to spin. Consider the streets of Iran right now.
From where you sit on this balcony, consider whether the bird that just landed feet from your head knows the wonder of a cello. You have seen a video of a man playing flute for a fox. Have you not? No? Then google. Find this.
Know that. The bees that carry the knowledge of jujube flowers do not worry about the rain. From up here everything exists for the birds. You know they like to land in different spots. They fly from height to height, perhaps in an attempt to know their surroundings better.
Maybe today you are the bird in need of a new angle, rushed not so much by whether there needs to be a fire or laundry done. You see from above.
You see that perhaps the bike rims might still be used. As another level for the birds to land, as a place where some sort of berry might be grown to feed them. Cardinals and fantails will not eat muscadines. Perhaps laughing gulls and crows will. Perhaps you know that all will become one giant canopy, even the cat’s claw that people refer to as the devil.
And in the above, you know that there is cat’s claw you have written, words that need to be cut and burned. Words and weeds that might never be seen if you never sat down and took the time to watch.
