Disintegration

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And that which is disintegration, decadence in its purest form, falls apart until the center vanishes . . . until the center rises, reconstitutes itself, rebuilds, reintegrates.




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A World In Past Tense

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By now, it’s more a Fallen Leaves Moon, a world in past tense, self gone, yet waiting, waiting . . . .



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Road Unfurls

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Road unfurls.



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Beautiful Madness

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all rights reserved.

And what lies between upon the threshold, in the interstices, is the beautiful madness, the fiery frenzy of the will to live out every second that remains. 




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Saffron and Amber

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All she needs is a curtain of sky, a stained-glass window of saffron and amber, an evergreen throne in the embrace of the sun.




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Stars Fall

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It tells them when it is time.

The time when the stars fall.



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A Different Kind of Sight

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The gift of the Eye of Spirit, the gift of a different kind of sight.



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Whisper

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A whisper, a murmur, a susurration of the spirits … the gentle sound of the earth coming to life even as she bends toward dormancy and rest. 



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Ghost Flowers

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They live on to dance in the west wind of twilight, ghost flowers free at last to move as whim takes them and winds decree.


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Indigo

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Above, below, it’s all moot. In this world, we all seek the indigo.



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The Last of the Sunflowers

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But for now, before the fall, before winter’s rest, they are the last of the sunflowers: inverted, yes, with blindingly yellow eyes and petals like coffee and cottonwood bark, but sunflowers still.

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Thunderbird Rising

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She reminds that we are, both of us, Thunderbird rising.





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The Light Road

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She was headed for The Light Road.



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Ghosts

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On the sloping sides of the mountains, the aspen lines are nearly gone, only faint light brown traceries remaining.

Like shadows.

Like ghosts.

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Like the Leaves

Photo copyright Aji, 2016; all rights reserved.

And when it cracks, its shell rent with shadow, the light filters through the webbed lines until the sheer weight of its glow forces it open . . .

 

and the light emerges, newly born, to fall to earth. 

Like the leaves.

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Blood Red With a Razor's Edge

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From the northeast, they are just visible atop the roofline of the hay barn, spiky scarlet blooms, blood red with a razor’s edge.



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Contraries and Sacred Clowns

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I much prefer to think of it as a harvest dance of the spirits of the Four Directions, of the Four Winds, of Father Sun and the Thunder Beings, all in the company and character of contraries and sacred clowns. 




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Against the Light

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In a few days, the fire will be mostly on the ground, fading fast, but for now, the flames dance against the light, in the face of the dark.




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Earth, and Love, and Memory

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It will be green again; it will grow again. It is rooted in the strong soil of earth, and love, and memory.


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In the Face of Falling Dark

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And still some leaves refuse to fall, refuse to allow the trees to weep. Instead, they rise insistently, stand tall and strong, hold themselves upright, great and golden, flames still burning bright in the face of falling dark.



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