Just after midnight the breeze wakens me.
The dog and I walk through the house, then go outside on the grass.
Between clouds, stars.
Between thoughts, nothing.
Deer look up where they graze in the distance.
The fawns step awkwardly through moonlight.
Our attention seems to drift but it can be directed.
She reminds me that there is much to do "in the world."
The pages of certain books turn slower than others.
Who wants the "one" has forever obscured the one.
And who goes "without judgment" has already judged.
It is much simpler than it seems, she says.
We talk about the garden at dusk and dawn and I learn.
We kneel to fasten the stems of tomatoes closer to their poles.
Help is always given but we have to ask.
You talk too much, she says, and other times don't talk enough.
She insists that silence is not my mode.
I wake again at 3 a.m., the right sentences in my mind, and put them down on a piece of paper near the bed.
How long it takes to become clear, when we have gone muddy for lifetimes!
And yet not so long either.