Picture a red fox, bruised and cut, slipping across a landscape—black stems of trees, mist rising from melting snow like a white dream, reserved green of winter firs. Or dashing along the sea, the waves wetting his paws. Or over dunes, his brushy tail flecked with sand. Imagine his rollicking freedom. Imagine that on his tongue is an infinitely precious disk of white fire: the peace of the world. He is flying around the world with peace flowing from his mouth like white breath in the cold. His feet go pattering past the dead of the world, thrown like bundles in the street. How quick they are, the small, silent feet. They dart past the boots of men. Listen! The crack of shots. The infinitely small noise of blood feeling its way over the earth.
Tom Fox, rest in the peace that clearly passes all of our human understanding.
Seek Giacometti’s “The Palace at 4 a.m.” Go back two hours. See towers and curtain walls of matchsticks, marble, marbles, light, cloud at stasis. Walk in. The beggar queen is dreaming on her throne of words…You have arrived at the web home of Marly Youmans, maker of novels, poetry collections, and stories, as well as the occasional fantasy for younger readers.
- Seren of the Wildwood 2023
- Charis in the World of Wonders 2020
- The Book of the Red King 2019
- Maze of Blood 2015
- Glimmerglass 2014
- Thaliad 2012
- The Foliate Head 2012
- A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage 2012
- The Throne of Psyche 2011
- Val/Orson 2009
- Ingledove 2005
- Claire 2003
- The Curse of the Raven Mocker 2003
- The Wolf Pit 2001
- Catherwood 1996
- Little Jordan 1995
- Short stories and poems
- Honors, praise, etc.
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Saturday, March 11, 2006
Death of a Fox
Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.
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Well. You are a fine writer. I'll have this set of fox images, and the sadness that comes with them, in my head for a very long time.ReplyDelete
thank you for this, Marly.ReplyDelete
Oh, Ms. J--ReplyDelete
You may thank yourself, as that particular dream of a fox sprang up and flew away while I was reading about your vigil with souls and snowflakes.
Tom Fox was braver than I have ever been, and I hope that he would not be displeased to be recalled as a Quaker Friend-fox, spreader of peace.
Laura, thank you! A compliment from the lady of flourishing trees (and of pens and inks and brushes with wonderful names) is one devoutly to be wished.
Each has his/her own gift from God. . . some the gift of courage to go, others the gift of words to make known, all the gift of compassion to live and give as we are given.ReplyDelete
Dear one, write on. . .
And you have the gift of encouragement! Among other things...ReplyDelete
That peace embodied by Tom Fox has slipped through human fingers so many times, like a whisp of smoke or shread of wind, but your words caught raw truth, and that is as close as we're going to get to that pearly disk of peace.ReplyDelete
That's awfully sad and clear-eyed, for 13 or thereabouts, Miss Megan!ReplyDelete
Sorrow brings with it the edge of hope and the promise of new joy, so I suppose it's alright. Mayhap from the resting place of Tom Fox will come the robin with the first whisp of spring.ReplyDelete