Morph
by Hosein Danesh ︎︎︎Dear Father,
No longer do I peer into the tree of life. Inhaling the scent should be enough. Shouldn’t it?
Its leaves, freshly turned, clinging to me like the night's dew by the lakeside. The aroma of steeped mint fills my lungs, fresh and spicy. If I carry solitude in my stomach, heals that too. Reckoned it was the morning I was walking carefree, amidst the labyrinth of thoughts. But then, it sparked again—a reminder of vanishing, absence, of roots forgotten. You remember the root of our hand-woven Persian carpets, don’t you?
The ones I used to thread akin to her locks, each strand holding a hope to grow like roots of a tree in a deep forest. The hope for them to grow out of black to white and age. Age like our bodies embraced the time. That’s the culmination of a magician, isn’t it?
Backwards ran I to dive into the season of carpets, to jump into a spring unfolding its tapestry: blooming blossoms, penetrating branches. Diving To merge within its fabric, to become timeles and true. You know that, don’t you?
Vanishing is always a possibility -an invitation-, disappearing into the depths of a hidden cave as a hand-woven Persian carpet with two souls growing within the patterns and blooms. Maybe night, a cold solitary night, a Sophie finds comfort lying atop paradise, unaware of the paradise beneath. But Sophie knows, doesn’t he?
Never happens. No Sophie emerges, no cave hides us, no carpet embraces my longing, and the roots remain dormant. I am wishful yet, for in another silence of a night, something else might unfold. It is merely an elusive fantasy slipping through my grasp, isn’t it?