A Question Of Safety

I had hoped to learn you didn't suffer. Small white mushrooms underfoot. A square of light in which yet-folded dandelions stood out like clubs. Like? And later still a small pyramid of ash that burning had smelled of sage.

We push out from the shore. Thirty years pass and still one navigates a familiar line. Meditation is almost always premeditated. Remember the way albums left out in sunlight would warp and become unplayable or - perhaps worse - unfamiliar when played? It is a question of safety, absolutely.

One begins again. One writes about "one or two steps only," as if it were a question of commitment. The light cleared slowly in the forest to reveal a pile of bear scat loaded - stitched almost - with blueberry seed. It's an old fear and it seems to return and so we have to "deal with it." You know?

Lessons would have helped. As would lyrics or at least a repetition of the complex melody. The mushrooms seemed perfect or so I thought before the day's first cup of coffee. Word of you never ceases though it does slow. I want to cry but - it is an old story, isn't it - I can't.