- In which our hero waxes perambular amid early spring woods.
A cool and blustery March afternoon
along the reaches of the Kennebec,
and Jeremiah is out,
as he is most days,
wandering without purpose or direction
the black bark forest
that lines the northern bank
and ensconces his hand-wrought cabin.
Deep into his seventh decade,
Jeremiah stops frequently,
to stretch deserving limbs
beneath venerable oak.
It is early yet for new bud growth
and he leans heavily back,
gazing upward
through branches glassy and moist.
Awash in the inspiration
of sky and wood,
Jeremiah speaks words into the sky
where they dance and cavort
to become poems and songs.
He watches them fly
and takes delight
in the bright music of breeze
soughing through branches.
Lost in the display
and the beauty of reverie,
he loses himself
and dozes
in tones sonorous and deep.
- In which Jeremiah awakes to a dilemma at once disconcerting and magical.
Disturbed from sleep’s subtle embrace
by the close passage of a thing
felt but unseen,
Jeremiah notes the coolness of dusk
and blinks crusted eyes
at the day’s final rays
that burn through crooked boughs
and cast orange tones
across his haggard face.
Night’s visitation imminent,
he rises reluctantly from his place,
stretches mightily
and gazes up again
at the first star’s glint.
Turning toward the distant river’s murmur
he sets out for home,
the draw of a glowing hearth
and the company of an old dog
weighing desirous upon his tired mind.
But only a dozen steps along,
Jeremiah perceives a diminution
in the river’s call,
though certain he is walking toward it.
But it matters not,
for even with the onset of night
and the fall of shadow upon shadow,
he knows his way.
He was weaned in this wood,
or at least might have been
for he has known no other place
his whole life long.
Daylight’s presence or absence
matter not a whit,
or never have until now.
He stops on the trail,
cocks his flaxen head
and hears again
the water’s distant rush,
only it is all about now
and without direction.
He wonders if his senses,
heavy with years,
have begun at last to betray him.
And then there comes
a new sound—
perhaps the breath of the living,
perhaps only some spring sonnet
adrift on the evening air.
- In which numerous amorphous phantasms manifest themselves.
And just when Jeremiah’s cognitive senses
begin to cast doubt
upon his perspicacious ones,
a dim but distinct blue green glow
appears in the branches
above his head.
This is no moon, he thinks,
for it is the evening
of a thumbnail crescent,
and even at its fullest,
no lunar glow ever bore such hue
nor offered warmth so close-felt.
For many moments
he stares upward rapt,
fixated upon the low branches
and the steady glow
that seems perched there
like pheasant or dove.
And so he scarcely notices
when another quite like it
creeps up from behind
to within a yard or two.
The same manner of specter,
only firmly upon the ground
rather than aloft like the first.
But the sudden faint shadow
the apparition casts across
the bed of leaves on the forest floor
does indeed make Jeremiah
turn at last,
only to marvel again.
And so it continues,
with more and similar diaphanous forms
appearing to his left and his right,
and several before him.
And only when a dozen or more
have gathered
in close assemblage
does Jeremiah perceive
the gentle low hum
that now fills the space
in which he stands
It is like the vibration
one struck string
imparts to another
when they are juxtaposed.
Which is to say
it is a secondary sound,
something induced.
Jeremiah considers tomorrow,
wonders even now
how he will describe what he saw,
what he heard,
when asked to recall it later
as he surely will be.
The ethereal phantasms,
once positioned,
do not move, save for
the subtle undulations
that attend their outermost coronas.
And at this moment
Jeremiah notes a curious feeling,
That of being trapped,
but not by the gossamer beings
that surround him.
Rather he feels trapped
inside his frail and spent corporeal body.
Trapped, yet not at all afraid.
- In which the luminous visitations make known their purpose.
With night’s full and earnest arrival
comes black sky
against which the
vibrant glow of the visitations
beats and thrums
in every direction
of Jeremiah’s astonished gaze.
Feeling no need of escape,
only the desire to understand,
he stares first at one,
then another,
and discerns
that the colors and brightnesses
are not as similar
as they first appeared.
Perhaps it is the greater contrast
of brilliant light on blackest night.
Perhaps simply the product
of focus and concentration.
These are distinct beings;
not mere reproductions.
And the deep sounds they make,
appear muffled and indiscernible
only because they speak
or sing
in a curious but ultimately dissectible
simultaneous and harmonious chorus.
It is only when Jeremiah
focuses intently both eye and ear
upon a single one
that he realizes their sounds
are perfectly albeit subtly discernible.
And stranger yet,
they are sounds he recognizes.
His own words!
- In which Jeremiah discovers a wondrous truth.
“We are you, Jeremiah.
Or more precisely, we are of you,”
they intone as one,
or seem to say,
as there are no faces or mouths,
only amorphous figures
of shifting color and indeterminate outline.
The words float and intertwine
in the air,
emanating from the visitors
and yet somehow removed from them.
“We are the words you have spoken,
the songs you have sung
in all your years of walking these woods.
We are everywhere,
in every tree branch and leaf
that soars above you,
every lichen and grass blade
beneath your feet.
Your days are short,
and we have come
only to offer thanks
and to tell you
that we will live on ageless
here in this wood,
singing your words and your songs
to anyone with the time
and the ear
to listen.
It is our fervent hope
that when your days are done
you will choose to remain
here among us
and be a part of this place.”
At which request
Jeremiah weeps,
not at the shortness of days,
for this is no surprise,
but rather at the beauty
of the sounds
and the specters
whence they emanate.
He reaches out a hand
to touch the nearest form,
but there is nothing to grasp,
only a cool dry breath
as his fingertips pass through
the hovering figure.
For a moment longer
he stands amidst them.
No words are spoken.
It is as if something
is being exchanged,
something precious.
Then, without warning or farewell,
the sounds begin to fade
and the figures rise gracefully
into the branches overhead
and Jeremiah,
looking up one last time,
finds again the path
and makes his way home
to begin the preparation.