ALIF OHM
Energy · Water ·
Soil
The first ohm — and the last.
What sleeps in salt, in
tide, and in
stone — we ask it to wake.
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The first ohm — and the last.
What sleeps in salt, in
tide, and in
stone — we ask it to wake.
There is a fire that does not burn. It asks for none of the rare things men dig deep or fight over, and takes only what the earth can freely spare.
Kept quiet in the dark, it waits — a year, or ten — and gives its whole strength the moment it is called. When its giving is spent it does not die: it lies down, and is raised, and gives again.
Such a fire we would carry to the hearth, the far field, and the roads the light forgot.
What it is made of, we keep. The riddle is the door; the answer stays within.
Most of the world is water no throat can drink. The sea is a locked door, and the key is not force but a patient, narrow way.
What the ocean clenches, a small quiet thing persuades to let go — the salt is kept, the sweetness passes through. And the bitterness left behind is not cast back to spoil the shore: even that is bidden to serve again.
How so little does so much, we do not yet tell. Soon.
There is ground that has forgotten how to give — not dead, only sleeping, and starved of what once fed it.
Return to it the mountain’s dust; speak to it in the old, low voices; and wait. No miracle is offered here — only the older truth that earth, well tended and rightly fed, remembers what it is for.
We ask of the ground nothing it will not honestly bear.