There Were Good Kings

One assumes the position of a supplicant and then gets angry when other supplicants arrive. Giving must be in the nature of utterly. Cardinals come up from the river and we watch them all morning without speaking. Often, the prayer we spend a lifetime preparing for has already been answered. Thus one learns what Heaven is for.

Or not. A few glasses of wine measured against moonlight on the barn, half an hour of moaning. One genuinely desires to forgive and ends up in conflict yet again. Are you following this? Amidst grackles and chickadees and the occasional ubiquitous nuthatch?

Well, against snow anyway. The morning passes searching for clear quartz, polishing it with denim, holding it up to the sun. God is see-through. Now and again you write a sentence and think, there, that's it. Then you write another one.

Then he wrote that good poem about the cardinals as magi. I will no longer play Macbeth! Yet there were good kings in that play, which is worth remembering. I think of you often while walking. Once fed, no longer hungry.