The Fusion of Light and Darkness
(c) Markay Kern
Long ago, when the world was young, the light and the darkness were enemies. They were enemies because they didn't know each other. The light ruled during the day, and the darkness at night, and they never met, not at all. As soon as the sun went down at night, it was fully dark, and when the sun rose in the morning, it was bright as noon all at once. There was no gray area; there was no half-and-half, only all light or all dark.
And because of this, the light thought the darkness was evil and dirty, and had to hide in its shame. Why else would it stay away from the light? And the darkness, for its part, assumed that the light was a braggart and lacked the proper modesty.
When He saw their enmity, the Creator sighed. He had created light and dark as opposites to give balance to the night and the day, and as a complement to each other, and now there was contention between them. Maybe, He reasoned, if they were allowed to meet and spend some time together, they would learn to get along.
Accordingly, the Creator arranged for the day and the night to overlap just a little. In the morning, when the sun came up, He let the night linger for a while around the edges of the horizon. And at night when darkness fell, a glimmer of light still remained.
At first, the darkness was irritated at the intrusion, and the light was anxious not to lose any power over the night. But as time passed, they learned to be civil with each other, and then began to speak, and in the course of time, they came to love each other. After all, who would comprehend the darkness more than the light?
And with the fusion of light and dark came something new--a time each morning that was neither fully light nor fully dark, but with the joy and sadness of each; the hope of the day with the longing of the night. And every night when the sun sailed lower, the dark and the light came together in passion to color the sky with flames.
The Woman's Dream
(c) Markay Kern
I.
Once I walked in a watered garden,
the ground mossy and cool beneath my feet,
the breezes sweet and warm against my skin.
Dappled sunlight fell through shadowed,
fragrant leaves, mingling rosemary and cedar
with scents of figs and pomegranates
ripened in the youthful sun.
Now stretches before my weary eyes
the scorching desert sands.
I struggle to till the dusty soil
and plant in barren earth.
Wandering through the arid land,
my thirsty soul searches for hints of green--
for another oasis.
In sleep, my dreams return to cool, restful nights
under the stars, moonlight reflecting on rippled surfaces
of deep pools of fresh water.
When I awaken,
each footstep carries me farther from the garden,
but my heart remembers the way home.
II.
Now years have veiled the memory
of shady bowers and cool stones underfoot;
replaced the scents of rosemary and cedar
with sagebrush and scrub oak.
My children, born to sun and dust, grow strong and brown.
They carry no memories of a cooler place,
where herbs and flowers planted by another hand
were watered in the morning mist.
They learn, with me, to work the soil,
to labor in exchange for food.
We find the sweet water hiding under parched earth
and coax new, green life from the ground.
There is always work to do.
My soul has ceased to long,
to curve itself in arcs that stretch back to Eden,
or forward to some unknowable oasis.
Here is my center; here is my home--
and we are planting trees.
Out To Pasture
(c) Markay Kern
"It was a knot tied to last," he explained to the
photographer,
rubbing the white bristles on his chin with stubby fingers
as he squinted up at the sky
to remember.
The photographer snapped pictures of the old Willy's sedan
in the meadow, the rope tied across its door
like the ribbon on a long-forgotten present.
"Joe had it towed out here in '53 after he bought the new Packard.
Tied the doors shut to keep 'em from flapping.
What a shame--nothing wrong with it
that a little work wouldn't have fixed."
He pushed aside some aging cattails.
"Look over here, son--most of these old cars
have been stripped at one time or another.
But this one still has all its gauges--ever seen an odometer like that?"
The photographer leaned in to see the abandoned Willy's
and adjusted his lens for a closeup of the alder sapling
growing through the steering wheel,
the old odometer littered with pine needles,
the moving shadow of the doorhandle,
the knot in the rough old rope which bound the ends.
"This car's been sitting out here through some pretty rough weather.
Gets real cold here come winter--Montana cold.
But it'll be here longer than the rest of us.
Forty years now and counting..."
He turned and gave his white-haired wife a wink and a grin.
"Joe got him a new wife about the same time
he got the new car. His ex-wife, Sally, she raised those boys
by herself." He shook his head and patted the door of the Willy's.
"They don't make cars like this any more.
In those days we did things right."
He tugged at the old rope.
"Yep...still tight."