One Recalls Apple Blossoms

And so gentleness returns. Stillness. In darkness in September one recalls apple blossoms - their delicate essence - and cannot sleep for such beauty and fragility. How I miss Her, who brought the Lord so close.

And yet. He wakes early - earlier than usual - and goes out into the fields that are blue in the moonlight. The sacred is everywhere, as the center is everywhere. And all things - even this.

She writes at an old table, one that he washes every afternoon. The body is not the words that sail through it, as I know all too well. In September, apples restore the brain's order that death is happy to confirm. Alone and unread I meet Christ and only after think, now what?

Now this. Again. The 4 a.m. composition, the morning prayer, the descent into "L" and "S" sounds, and trisyllabic bliss. There is no one to miss, and no one to leave, and yet the brain wanders as through a field in which a diamond was lost, lifetimes ago.

My tears fall heavy and slow! Watts Brook offers its hushed whispers, owls remind each other that all nights end. Because I am so bent on following Him, I am utterly unfollowable. Oh my empty hands, oh my wordy heart.