One's dreams are instructive. The broken fence wandered as far as the road. And I remember of course the three horses who ran gracefully and proud through the unplanted potato field as the sun rose and the fear I felt and the wonder.
Your thunder is my drifting apple blossom. Yet we all fall and must if we are going to get anywhere. There are no mysteries but those that we want.
Some hair product, a new shirt and of course a bit of attitude. The morning coffee no longer sustains the way it once did and thus. We are just writing on one hand but on another we are writing.
After a while, symbolism loses its efficacy. The West has done a poor job of processing its spiritual impulses, preferring to contain rather than expand them. Is that right?
Behind the clouds, the moon. And the lonesome howls of a chained dog, rising up from the hollow, as we walk together hand in hand. Accept my gratitude as I accept yours, gratefully.
Gertrude Stein was right, as was Emily Dickinson. Hansel is brave but lacks a meaningful capacity for looking within. That was a sweet kiss we shared - unexpectedly - in my dream.
And now the water boils hopefully for tea. And now we recall the sea, always to the north, as if direction mattered, as if it did.
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