Author: miguel

We played together long ago and not far from here. As we grew older, our faces wore out and we made new masks for ourselves. It didn’t matter.

The village walls turned their backs on us, betrayed us with their silence. The sky kept all of its secrets as well; it told us nothing. But maybe we were running too fast to listen.

Venice remained asleep, far away, on the other side of the sea. It receded even farther into haze as the riders got closer. They said nothing, but their horses called out to us: “Don’t be afraid, little souls. We won’t harm you.”

We often wondered: should we have believed them?

The Boy: Do you remember? We loved each other even in the womb?

The Shipwreck: There used to be a forest here. The chopped down trees made me. Now I sink back into my deepest roots.

The Ruins: Once our arms were open and we were beautiful, like the children.

The Riders: We watch, we wait, we listen. We endure longer than temples and palaces. Don’t be afraid.

The Girl (singing): “Be sure to catch me! I want you to catch me! Then we’ll play it, play it, all over again.”

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More images on my website: johnmichaelkeating.com

In late Autumn, little green blades emerge from narcissus paper white bulbs and begin to stretch their fingers up and out towards the sun. Nights grow longer and colder at this time of year and each day there is less and less light; sometimes it feels like the sun is dying. In the last days of December, especially on cloudy days, it feels like the sun will never come back to us.

Two mornings after Christmas, we woke up to a dark, white world. During the night a ferocious storm had swept through the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, leaving behind more than a foot of heavy snow and the wreckage of fallen limbs and power lines, roads blocked by fallen trees, houses and cars crushed beneath uprooted trees and tons of snow. Some homes in our town endured more than two weeks without heat or electricity. We were lucky: only seven days without power, and none of the fallen limbs and branches landed on our house.

Dark days of clouds and not even a murmur of Spring. I shoveled snow, chopped ice, chain-sawed cedar and oak limbs and drew the paper whites. One day they gave up. I found them collapsed onto the red shoulders of a poinsettia. Did they fall under their own weight? Were they exhausted from searching for the hidden sun? Maybe they were just tired of being my muses? I hope they’ll pose for me again the next time the sun almost disappears.