As the chimes knock together, silver winds sway;
a chorus of sparrows lift their beaks and sing along,
hummingbirds flitting from flower to flower, their wings
a blur of motion, their hearts aflutter. The sun breaks
upon the gray twilight, dashed upon rock and the rolling green hillside,
molten gold and orange, liquid reds and mournful blues,
pursuing the night. As shadow and dream flee into shade,
dawn spills through the open window, where a sleeping scholar wakes.
He lifts his heavy head, rubs at his dry eyes, red indents
where he smashed his face against his glasses, and meanders through
the maze of shelves, running his finger from spine to spine,
down the soft covers, the old tomes, and the shining new additions
to his collection. He hoards words as if he starves; he hoards for the coming winter.
He hungers for more, always; he lights the oil lamp
when night gathers him in a cloak of calm dark and sleep beckons.
He throws the curtain over the window when daylight waves at him from outside;
he covers his ears to the sound of birdsong and closes his eyes
to the spattering of nighttime stars. He thirsts for more time, to skim
from page to page, to roll up the sleeves and take quill to paper,
and so he deprives himself. He knows the right word for everything;
he can speak every tongue and sing every song. But he cannot speak
the language of shadow, and he cannot sing the song of sparrows.
He doesn’t know the soft touch of grass or skin. He knows the description of gold,
he knows where to find it, but he never seeks it out.
He reads nightly of adventures, of heroes and noble men,
who wield spears and swords and wear heavy armor,
as he hunches low over the desk with a crick in his neck. He sleeps
only when the story is over, blind to the passage of clouds in the sky;
if there exists a story with him at the center, he does not know it.
He contents himself to sit in stillness and silence, chasing
everything that is not real, until one day he lifts his head to a knock
and, instead of opening the door and letting what is outside pour in,
he hides, cowering beneath the desk with his hands over his head,
wishing the world away.
~~~
Photo by Thomas Kelley on Unsplash
Rachel Sandell 