Sunday, June 23, 2013

We Go Lighter Up the Higher Trails

I go nowhere empty-handed though often alone. The dog tree's two bear cubs coming home and they mew on the higher limbs, practicing a greater roar. The air in that moment was sweet, roseate, encompassing.

When she removes her shirt, there is a sound it makes falling to the floor. In the air - in the light - there is a new way of being. I remember the fire and bend over the desk to get the details just so.

And later go outside to drink coffee and listen to birds. Robins sing with an urgency I can only admire. The old rose bush sags and pushes out its pink tissue blooms.

I grew up in the company of hard men, some of them, and yet saw the gentleness that lay beyond. Fishing on the Deerfield River . . .  sometimes I don't need a damned thing. We give and give and something burns away and thus we go lighter up the higher trails.

The neighbor comes over with his own coffee (decaf, instant) and talks about his daughter who visits rarely and last time left her dogs. The wise are already putting up wood for winter. In time I'll sleep but for now I'm awake.

Awake and in love, perhaps. A little breeze steps up and the laundry moves accordingly. One longed once for the gift of her breasts, behind which a mighty heart sang, buttressing heavenly shoulders.

But doors close and time passes and new trails beckon. We write it and go, following the one who pulled from our own meager heart a single syllable and set it in the firmament where it makes - still - a little flicker of light.

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