Soft Explosion
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Soft Explosion
By late summer the trail had nearly vanished. The hills so dry, so dense the underbrush, that where I pushed my way the giant hush was changed to soft explosion. Seedpods burst against my sleeves. Dead twigs snapped. Dust lifted and settled again.
Age arrives much the same way. We imagine death as a cliff, a clean horizon, but the landscape teaches otherwise. The path narrows gradually. Growth tangles with ruin. What is living crowds what has already fallen. Each step disturbs a thousand small endings. Dust falls.
Yet the hillside is not busy mourning itself. The brittle grass gleams gold. The broken branches shelter roots. Even the silence survives its own interruption.
Standing there, I could not tell whether the land was dying or enduring. Perhaps mortality is only that uncertainty: the moment we realize the two may be the same damned thing.
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This bit of Prosery was prompted by those dusty devils over at DVerse Poets Pub.
It contains the line "“The hills so dry, so dense the underbrush, that where I pushed my way the giant hush was changed to soft explosion.”
From the poem “On a View of Pasadena from the Hills.” by Yvor Winters
This is so powerful. I like "Yet the hillside is not busy mourning itself. The brittle grass gleams gold. The broken branches shelter roots. Even the silence survives its own interruption."
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