Hurried notes claimed our footsteps, dancing us to the next moment.
Quick, the chorus called, Time is running. We, ever after it, had never known stillness. Do you mean, we wanted to ask, that once we stayed, and Time with us? What would that be like, we wondered, to climb the craggy rungs of his beard, tethered between once and will? Instead, we spilled into Space––into spaces, flooding.
Something was off, or all of it. If stillness came again, we meant to ask. We thought we knew the flood story: an ark, the saving rainbow, dove of peace, but in an age on the run the known ones would not hold. How could we be the flood, the water itself, the coming storm? What did this mean for the rainbow, the dove, no longer of us?
Who floats, then, into the next dawn––or what?
2 thoughts on “What Spills”
Is this what creates discomfort when we are alone and not dancing to the tune?
Well, now that’s a great question. I never thought of it that way. That seems to resonate.