March 25

Whiteness I

The world glows white outside..the snow generously giving the moon back its azure light.  The trees stand like sentinels, shoulders hunched wearing epaulets of ice. The sound of cold, like a breathy echo, absorbing all the audible details.  As the world shivers under its innocuous looking burden, all the living things hunker down, the itinerant and homeless suffering under their lack of defense against the whiteness.

 

I sit here, in this cold.  Just when it seems I am resigned to doing research, seeking technical terms to describe the nuances of behavior, words become too much, and I come sit in the all encompassing argent.  My head is filled with strategic transverse areas, all comprised by several forms of energy my islets can no longer suffer. When my governance of such thoughts becomes too much, I let concentration glide away beyond understanding of the scientific.. and slip into one of the comfortable anterooms of my mind.  The transition is so effortless, so freeing, I lose myself in the dark corners..

 

As my breath clouds and accumulates in my face on this night of supreme whiteness..this night of silvery blue magic, I imagine imps in the wood, puck of the dusk lurking behind trees, watching me with suspicion.  For this is their night, a night filled with all that is ethereal, all that is magic. As the trees creak and groan with ice and are forced to bow to the wind, as the wee owl takes his perch in the highest tree, I escape the surface with him.. My mind carries me over the frozen wood, over the glowing blue fields.  I find myself far away, but yet some place familiar.. Now I am in a friends wood, alight on the big branch outside her door. I sing to her as the wee owl would.. I tell her of the lovely magical night, of all its promise.. I beckon her forth into the glowing azure and argent. I want her to share in my foray into the whiteness unending…and because she is my friend, a touchstone, she abides.  She is the loveliest barn owl, she owns the night. And we set off together, like the puck of the dusk, in the cold wood. Her wings broad and silent, her call plaintive, we listen to all that is left unsaid as we fly. Soon light will come, and our adventure will cease to be, until another magical night presents itself to us.. Until it is time once again for our spirits to fly.

 

Until next time my beautiful creature…

 

Charlotte von Wolfle Greer

2.14.14

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Posted March 25, 2020 by Charlotte Von Woffle Greer in category "Longer Tracts and Essays

About the Author

From Review: "Charlotte Von Woffle Greer is an artist in the truest sense of the word. Tormented, embattled, strong, fearless and fearful. Curious, and full of wonder yet jaded and defeated at times. An artist shares what they feel. A true and brave artist shares what they feel completely as Charlotte does, in these pages." -Erik Johnson