There are doors through which we all must pass. The tea kettle strains against the raging water inside it. Faith in music gets you nowhere.
One wakes and takes stock. Always ask: who is not here who should be. Peach compote on pancakes and then a long walk through sodden woods to the brook.
How it hurts, your absence. No silence is complete without her. Yet there is always another hand, or so it seems, this side of Heaven.
One studies the maps for a hint as to intent. Leans toward spells. In my dream, I nearly drove into a lake but stopped, and appreciated with new intensity, my coffee mug.
Patterns are shiny objects. Any four leaf clover will float for a while when set on water. It's cold in the morning and your presence matters differently.
He wrote after a long walk, as always, not in search of what to say. Belief in what, is the question? I have been writing poems since I was six years old - and talking to God, too - and it is getting tiresome.
On the other hand, what is a life but an excuse for Love to assume yet another form? You won't take this but it is for you, as all my poor efforts have been, since I first started to stumble down this trail.
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