On the trail I find blue jay feathers, shotgun shells, rusted ball bearings and bear scat. Broken glass and oil cans dinged by .22's. The heron passes overhead, traveling west, which means something other than me spooked her. When I dream of you it owns the clarity of quartz and my fingers trailing a passage down your cheek come alive.
One reflects often on the movement of advaita vedanta west - to England and then the United States - and the resultant transformation - still subtle but readily trackable - on Christianity. The words we use matter. As in, "Potomac sunrise." We find ourselves in specificity and then lose ourselves in a greater light no longer fearful. I cannot bear - my body trembles - at the possibility of kisses.
Robins and their babies scatter. A fence, properly understood, binds nothing. One daughter takes her camera to the garden, the other carries a book into maple shadows to read. Often this writing is like notes for later, so I'll remember what to say. We are ripples joining, we extend and grow quiet.
Carry me a little further, won't you? Her letters often remind me of origami, or a yearning to create folds of my own, as if that were a helpful model. As roses are, or kisses. I am electric in you, as you are in me, and it just this side of manageable. We study the sky and see something in the stars that says we have done this before and it is okay, it is going to be okay.
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