From the bathroom window I can hear the ducks eating grass. A clicking sound, a nattering sound. And in the weedy remnants of Tiger Lilies, a cricket. Bees.
The form must change if we are to perceive what is holy. In the basement, the muted rattle of water pipes carrying water out to the garden. Newts visible, familiar totems on unfamiliar trails. Wet dogs the breath of morning prayer.
The one who watches over you never sleeps, never forgets his watch. Is there time then to study the Psalms? Morning over Lake Champlain, always the hungry distance. And always an empty bottle, one in which the wind resides.
Resided? If you believe that time is real, then learn what time is for. The grammar cops hide God. And when the student is ready, the student will disappear.
Or so I thought on the way into the woods this morning, trying mightily not to try so hard. Knowing the zafu is filled with hulled buckwheat is only an impediment if you require impediments. Please choose carefully! He wrote, as always, wishing there was more to say.
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