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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476927" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Night Dances With Itself Like An Only Child</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The night dances with itself like an only child<br>to the sounds of its own silence <br>when it thinks no one is watching. <br>Every falling leaf, a gesture of the hands, <br>poised, a word, a bird, a butterfly on a branch, <br>a sacred syllable from an alphabet that can dance, <br>caught in the updraft of a momentary insight<br>of falling to paradise like a flightfeather of light, <br>and landing the move just right, just so, with perfect timing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The maples by day, easels for hot palette paintings, <br>red shift through red, orange, yellow, green<br>from the outside in toward the trunk, same <br>as a rainbow, same as the dynastic colours of a sunset. <br>Same as the fires of life returning to the root. <br>Same as the starmaps of the visionaries <br>flying like shamans from the nests they were fledged in. <br>Same as the ripening of the fruits of the earth, <br>or roses with green stars under their eyelids.<br> <br>Different instruments, different voices, <br>the wind, the rasping of the leaves, the beaver <br>slapping the startled flesh of the water at my approach, <br>a twig snapping its drumstick on a rim shot<br>and the crow, and the squeaking bats, and the lapping <br>of the waves like the plectra of an aquamarine harpsichord<br>at the whole notes of the rocks, but a confluence <br>of picture-music washing the roots of the dead violins <br>of the wild irises and the timpani of cattails along the mindstream. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Merrily, merrily, row your boat, life is but a dream.<br>But to judge from the windfalls of green planets<br>shaken from the black walnut trees, it's a dream <br>that's urgent with the myriad realities of a multiverse<br>waking up in a place like here, and a time like now<br>with a lavish appetite for inhabiting itself<br>as if appearance weren't just the rind <br>that had to be peeled away like the skin and the shell <br>of the meat of the real, the shapes of the known worlds<br>the rat snakes shed like intimate illusions <br>that have naturally outgrown themselves, <br>the new moon in the arms of the old, like a nightsky<br>leaving the Milky Way, a mythically deflated windsock <br>tangled in the tree line like a runway that tried to fly by itself. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now the Great Shedding as the earth turns <br>like the old abandoned mill wheel upstream <br>like a circular waterclock making linear time <br>take its tail in its mouth like an eternal recurrence<br>that's always pouring itself out of itself like life <br>into the emptiness between the equinox of one thought <br>and the solstice of the next like the silence between heartbeats, <br>the night between the stars, like the inseparable gap <br>between the distant moon and the intimacy of the moon's reflection <br>on the newly surfaced dark skin of the water sequencing <br>its pentatonic scales to the seasonal themes of the mindstream <br>you can't step into twice, as Heraclitus said in Ephesus long ago, <br>though it seems that way if all you're doing is dogpaddling <br>like a delinquent green apple on a snow covered bough, instead <br>of going along with the perennial renewal of the flow <br>by letting go of your water skin with its lunar tattoo<br>like the bright vacancy of an old silo of the light<br>for the dark abundance of the new insight <br>into the nature of life when it full in October.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fall. This hour of my becoming <br>when everything is burning like the sumac <br>with the fires of life but nothing is consumed. <br>Because fire doesn't burn fire and death is unperishing. <br>And autumn is no less of a transformation than spring<br>as this new day dances as readily with the old woman <br>watching from her kitchen window as it does the young girl, <br>than the rain is to the tides of a lunar ocean <br>swaying in its shadows as if it were dancing <br>with its river reeds like a lonely child <br>in the embrace of her imagination, <br>like a poet in the grip of his crazy wisdom <br>flirting like a firefly with the dragons of his madness<br>without listening to the search parties of the lighthouses <br>bellowing like the foghorns of mournful trains back on shore<br>being swept away into the distance like nightwatchmen <br>and unconvincing ghosts. Things are unmooring <br>like lifeboats full of seeds and the souls of the dead <br>taking to their wings like the oars of waterbirds, <br>and the lowest of earthbound snakes <br>are dreaming of feathering their scales <br>into the vans of a dragon firewalking with stars<br>around the wobbling axis of the earth <br>on a potter's wheel, turning it like sentient starmud <br>that's fired up in autumn like an urn that burns like a kiln.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476927" data-title="The Night Dances With Itself Like An Only Child de Patrick White" data-description="The night dances with itself like an only child
to the sounds of its own silence 
when it thinks no one is watching. 
Every falling leaf, a gesture of the hands, 
poised, a word, a bird, a butterfly on a branch, 
a sacred syllable from an alphabet..."></div>
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