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Friday, May 24, 2013

An unused metaphor by John von Daler


    The cloudless sky, visible all the way around
360 degrees of horizon. A bright yellow sun
almost directly overhead. The green lawn of an oil
company in south east Tulsa.
   A kite up in the blue with messages attached for
curious hawks or the occasional intellectual eagle,
the tail of the kite, Mom's rags and my old T-shirts, dancing a white S.
    I, ten years old, alone, happy, a stick of rolled
string in hand, quietly stand the second hour of this watch - until the branch in my hand gives a small jerk like a sigh and the end of the string flies up and away towards the south west as the once taut line now draws a giant, disconnected C in the air.
    Forgot to tie down the end. Forgot to watch
to see how much string was left. Forgot to plan ahead.
    No great loss. Because now I follow the string
for seven or eight city blocks through driveways
and backyards, through the scent of bacon, the
sounds of television, the sight of startled eyes in
windows, the barefoot feel of freshly mown grass,
the flicker of lives glimpsed and passed, onwards
towards the fallen kite, downed on a garbage can
behind a garage beneath a half-roof, all intact.
    And all of it has meaning, like so many other
visions and stories lived through and noted,
remembered, stashed in a literary pocket, pulled
just now into the light to see, vital, almost tactile,
but as yet, unused.

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