Jonas Zdanys’ Creating the World

from Preludes After Rain

I heard something fall in the early hours today as
the wind blew on its journey in the first day of this
season, whistling through the thin branches that
huddle hard against the last trespass of winter. It was
an unexpected sound, the abrupt rattle of ghosts in
the attic returning to the earth. The minute would
not focus, the aging colors of whatever falls would
not heal, the quick ache of a heart that knows the
sky is suddenly too close sidles and bleeds. Nothing
stays. Nothing in its characteristic light. Nothing in
this moment of dispersion. The dust in the window
slowly learns its still craft, the night points elsewhere,
and I hear myself, wherever I turn, hands over my
eyes, falling in a hail of wax and feathers, far from
the sea, a ball of glory, the blood pounding, all fire
and joy, against the walls and roof of the house. I saw
eternity in the sky’s blue light, forgot the old artificer’s
warning, sang to myself, helpless and free, until the
strings of the universe stretched and broke.