One pauses between the form of life and life.
And thinks of her in her western garret, eloquent but troubled, waiting on the hero she is always writing towards.
One questions what she offers and what she withholds.
The hills are voluble and the trails I walk empty: the middle of the day slides gently towards dusk.
The hawk circles high above, yet below the bright ivory of cloud banks, while chickens scratch through piles of compost.
Who gives, receives, and goes without lack.
There is only one gift though it takes many forms.
There is a sound one's shirt makes falling to the floor.
There are soft cries and promises, there are kisses that go on without end.
One expands in order to meet it.
One steps into the welter of longing and makes contact there with what is and knows at last they are forever welcome and the altar goes with them and cannot be rendered unsacred.
But who dreams waits and who waits goes without.
Observe the heron who moves her great wings slowly and rises and flies away.
The blood in me rises and my eyes close and I pray.
Who knows how to reach me must, and who cannot, will find another.
Absent clothing - and offered willingly - the body is a kind of map.
One lingers a long time over it, grateful to be no longer lost.
As the raspberry bushes extend their fruit.
As the daisy's petals widen and open: and what is lovely and soft is revealed: and Heaven itself opens.
For I entered you long ago, Beloved, as soon as you asked, and became then the hot center you are so afraid - still - to touch.