The lilac bushes in the back yard are faring slightly better, but they, too, seem to be nearing the end of their lives. This spring is fulled of mixed signals. The exotic garden plants seem old, their lushness spent, but the oaks and pines flourish. They are the natives, of course, so they should, even in drought years, but the general decline around them is sad. I can't tell if I've grown weary of the place, or have just grown weary. Maybe it's both. I keep thinking I'd like to go some other place, but have I no idea where, and I doubt that I have the energy in any case.
So I sit and watch the landscape and the drifting clouds, and listen to the birds and the frogs, and sniff the crisp air scented with wet grass and pine. Tomorrow it will rain again, and I'll be relieved from thinking about change for another day. After all, nothing can be done in the rain.
[Where do words come from?]
by Vénus Khoury-Ghata
Where do words come from?
from what rubbing of sounds are they born
on what flint do they light their wicks
what winds brought them into our mouths
Their past is the rustling of stifled silences
the trumpeting of molten elements
the grunting of stagnant waters
they grip each other with a cry
expand into lamentations
become mist on the windows of dead houses
crystallize into chips of grief on dead lips
attach themselves to a fallen star
dig their hole in nothingness
breathe out strayed souls
Words are rocky tears
the keys to the first doors
they grumble in caverns
lend their ruckus to storms
their silence to bread that's ovened alive