There was never a forgiveness as when the red bird landed. We write not to say but to learn what to say. Queen Ann's Lace everywhere and at last some Black-eyed Susans.
The kids read quietly, nearly invisible in the dusk. One sees a light, a flurry, and is changed forever. Or, as Bob Seger once sang, turn the page.
How can I approach enlightenment with tenacity and gravity when it's so damned funny? The man in red robes raced by on a scooter, the look on his face one of pure delight. Joy is familiar but only just so.
The cardinal obscured itself in a tuffet of spring grass. Sodden streamers, fallen balloons. Earlier I talked you through the moment of your death, feeling as if I had just swallowed a whopping bolus of salt.
I meant love. We are the landing page we are looking for. So many flowers, so little time for field guides.
I guess I do long for a meaningful reflection. The mechanism of sympathy works quite well in you, doesn't it? Authors paced the wall by the sea as the sun fell, watched by soldiers who were too young to understand anger.
Make of your heart a manger in Bethlehem. And beware of too many bean sprouts.
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