The world after death sings in forests.
Leaves gather in green shifting waves along sunlit ponds and the sun sets so yellow stars can slide right next to the lonely Earth. “This happens everytime,” says the lonely Earth “it’s happened every age,” and shudders its scarred cheek on the hard bed of night.
The restless rise in the resting time. The crickets pacing ‘round the river bend grow loud and loud and buzz and blight. The Earth wakes with clarity. And cries again down fresh icy lakes. And cries again on broad fern. And cries again on sizzling meat that cools in wisps of steam.
Mountains empty out. Limestone hearts carry down the hollow lightly drumming to the birch’s flute. “These things happen,” comforts the grieving Earth, love is heard if not seen, it thinks in silence. And turns its face again.
Strange beautiful things emerge from the limestone caves, long legged creatures leaping with new born knees. Strong necks gather sweat in deep orange hours, working beside the salty streams.
“This happens everytime,” says the quiet Earth, ruefully with joy. As night comes again it pillows its head despite the windy cold. The limestone rock seeps out of rivers and curls to beds of sand; tosses in the night, shakes percussion, joins the cricket’s castanets.
In the dark clouds spread a low horizon and the stars come ever closer. In the song comes something stranger: a sight the Earth had seen before: A comet wheezing in silent offbeat poems.
Meteors broke off unryhthmed, dripping silver lights on clouds and sand. The Earth gasped in wonder, “How can this be?” said the earth, loudly in the melody, “I know these things happen,” it pondered, “Once I sang this to the mountain. But how could I sing once more?” But despite its temper each star fell and the Earth gasped in helpless, shaking, shocked delight.
The night passed. Again, the sun rose fuchsia bright. Vined and flowering clouds strummed across the sky. To the sunrise the Earth joined unending song.
Thinking of death, it sang of love. Sang of still dark caves and quiet nights.
Sang of things unseen but well heard. Sang of things unheard but long well kept.
@nosebleedclub 12.2025: Day 20
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