Who knows the truth of this place — what I contemplate on an early spring morning, before a solar eclipse will arrest our attention, hurt our eyes if we don’t protect them somehow. I write & draw to attempt to pay attention, someone/something said “Shhh…”
and begged that I listen…
Who knows the truth of this place?
Medicine bottles found in its ruins — some hooch drank out back while neighborhood children ran along the cut through ‘tween hither & that tantalizing yon.
The shards unearth themselves at just the right moment; another brood of cicadas remain beneath the soils, wait too — we are not distanced from the past, we are engulfed in its trenches, unaware that we are already ghosts haunting each other, in this waking dream —
Who knows the truth of this place…the scars on old trunks and their deep roots excavating the landscape, seekers as well. Who whispers, “Shh…,” begging me to listen more attentively this spring morning, with its persistant buzz, that pushes up from the ground, to show itself anew.
at April 7, 2024, the morning before the solar eclipse
~ Carli Castellani
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