(no subject)
I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show.
Andrew Wyeth
Renacimiento
It's a cellophane record of dialogue
Legends born of scotch and whiskey
The leaves outside a universal window
We swear are ballerinas
They're something,
Something left to be discovered
Beneath the coal black shadow
Of hidden and nameless hands
Braided into the beginning of soil
It must turn into hell, the dirt left under our nails
The prod and scar of feeling bitter change
Or seasons breaking marrow between bone
And then we become orphans
That only calendars may adopt
Children’s tears dry solely for the wind
As a condition of restlessness
Determined by the maternal weave of wheat fields
Like a soft rocking cradle of violin and cello
Only to be painted over with a delicate white
A home found in the posture
Of the Berlin Wall
Instinct must be to marry nature
For the rise and fall of winter
In the confidence of knowing our rebirth
Will always be crafted
and destroyed
Andrew Wyeth
Renacimiento
It's a cellophane record of dialogue
Legends born of scotch and whiskey
The leaves outside a universal window
We swear are ballerinas
They're something,
Something left to be discovered
Beneath the coal black shadow
Of hidden and nameless hands
Braided into the beginning of soil
It must turn into hell, the dirt left under our nails
The prod and scar of feeling bitter change
Or seasons breaking marrow between bone
And then we become orphans
That only calendars may adopt
Children’s tears dry solely for the wind
As a condition of restlessness
Determined by the maternal weave of wheat fields
Like a soft rocking cradle of violin and cello
Only to be painted over with a delicate white
A home found in the posture
Of the Berlin Wall
Instinct must be to marry nature
For the rise and fall of winter
In the confidence of knowing our rebirth
Will always be crafted
and destroyed