Questions a writer asks
Every page is a winter garden:
sometimes there is metal
the water is frozen for you
it is as footsteps and as instruments, delicate and pure
there are stones, often on purpose
it oughtn't be western
it is meditative always, or it speaks blood
noise breaks it carefully
there is no sunset
blades, ink, and breath belong there
it is out of time
there is always a path, and the eyes are meant to stray
it can be taken at once, if you remember
there is often a message of warning, of here (now)or there (then)
you are certain there are animals, but cannot find them
there is a kind of life, and it speaks of death
love belongs there
in it hope secretly dwells
the artist might have been there, its surfaces are pure of the artist's touch
there are rows and a certain violence, a frozen violence
it opposes something beyond its walls
it forgets the secrets it asks of others
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The preceding, as well as all other parts of Nathan's Philosophy and Writing are pending copyright (c) 2006, Nathan Coppedge