Morning grows wise without me. Yellow birch leaves here, brown poplar leaves there. The trail turns and I follow it with my dog, as I have since I was young, and it is enough.
One turns to Jesus in a difficult time and is rewarded. Turtles push deeper into the mud and close their eyes. Frost decorates the prints of deer, as if somebody had scattered marzipan stars.
She kisses my throat hungrily, the dog steps off to the floor to wait. How lovely our bodies are in the darkness, flaring and joining like moths. A ghazal is another way of saying the same thing: I am separated from God and want somebody else to fix it.
Thus this. Thus the breeze that pushes each red leaf of the front yard maple into the sunlight where it spins and drifts to the uncut grass. I sip tea and write as I have done almost every morning now for thirty years.
The sentences, too, would replace God yet - paradoxically - also suggest a way back to divine wholeness. Her voice is sweet but I am not a butterfly driven to any flower. Often I leave the trail and wander for hours alone, making sense of things the way bears do, or wolves.
All psychological problems are solved in an instant or they are not solved! My foot brushed a mushroom which leaned on its side. Remember: solitude and loneliness are not synonymous.
We come quietly - gratefully - holding each other. Redeemed - briefly - by mutual tenderness.
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