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Thresholds
E.D. Blodgett

Were it possible, if destiny did not forbid, we might
be standing side by side, speaking on a threshold that could not
be known to us. What did we speak of if not of god and trees, of how
the sun will disappear, all of it turned to air, invisible
and unremembered? All that stays is how your voice returning stood
against the air, a sound of weathered stone. Perhaps it is the stone
that is the threshold of a heaven, and where, arriving, we do not
arrive but simply begin to wake, the going and the coming a

reaching into the dark, a way of speaking that would take a thought
to what appears to be its end, silence taking it away.
So it is to stand inside snow, without a sense of where
north might be, the destiny of stars removed, every turn
the same, the body that we think we are another silence that
becomes another echo of all silence, every word
white and falling through the white air. So it is that fate
has an end, and god, and we waken where all we might

have said stands around us flowered in eternal suns, the light
the single sentence of the world, no word evoking silence, no
conclusion of arrivals, just the light that spreads across stone,
all coming and all the going turns that turn upon themselves,
nothing to remember, all that is spoken gathering itself
into whatever is, and we are that stone, the threshold of
the heaven we imagined without seeing, light spreading on
the merest stone of us, wherever in darkness we happened to fall.

About the Author
E.D. Blodgett is a Distinguished University Professor Emeritus, University of Alberta.



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