Sunday, January 8, 2012

Near A Rose Bush

It is a day of learning to forgive, or hoping to anyway. The past shades all things but this is simply a habit of seeing. What cannot be undone does not exist. In the moonlight, even the tiny pine trees appear garish and large.

Earlier - before the sun rose - I felt the presence of Old Scratch, sad and angry, just past the tree line. We walk slowly over icy fields, finding our way. The dog, once known for traveling many miles far and wide on an ordinary walk, now slows down and stays nearby. Count your blessings, not your dollars.

Ah, who am I anyway? Three fingers of cirrus float overhead, a chickadee perches near a rose bush. Must winter always come? Must we always think in terms of followers?

You come at my child in anger and grief and I cannot let that be. Merchants walk into the temple with heavy hearts, hefting cages in which nervous doves await their fate. Are we different? The sun comes up and it goes down and I cannot take my eyes off the sky.

Thus, this. Thus a note of apology, offered years too late. The lamps flicker and grow dim and eventually expire. We ask for too much and our boots are filled with sand.

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