Someone once told me, with incredulity, that Heidegger wrote his later work while gazing out the window at a water pump, as if that were too boring a sight to inspire greatness.
I wonder if this person ever actually took the time to look, really look, out such a window; perhaps, if they had, they would have seen how the small black flakes of paint, peeling off its body, catch the wind like tiny wings or how little jewels of water drip from its full moon mouth into a prism pool cupped by the worn stone base. Why wouldn’t this sight inspire greatness? Perhaps, Heidegger knew that truths, like water pumps, only come into focus when they’re framed– being caught in both window panes and lines of text on the page.
Under a Maple Tree
Looking up at the canopy, the five pointed leaves seem like stars to me, all fire and gold and light.
It brings back memories of cold nights spent holding you in my arms, Orion bright above us, as we made promises and love among the stars.
But that was long ago. And seasons change.
Five pointed reminders of time fall upon the ground, as I stand here remembering you… and the stars we once wished upon.
They used to take the straightest saplings, strip them of their bark and split their little hearts right down the middle.
Then they would place a stone tip, sharp and biting, there and secure it with pine sap and leather twine.
Finishing it off with a halo of fine white feathers cropped tight to the shaft-- ensuring that it flies straight to its target.
When you let loose your arrow, I realized that the Fletcher’s art is not forgotten even in these modern times.
Your single sharp and biting word struck my heart.