Monday, October 7, 2013

Like A Lonesome Motel

My lesson is not about letting go but rather holding on. Or so it seems at just before 5 a.m., this side of a rainy walk. Fog makes all light more luminous. Where are you? How my perception enlarges when you are its focus . . .

Or so I write, being bound by the laws of art to seduction. She writes about a new season and a small smile creases my lips. Rarely do I give attention where it is needed. We are encrusted and set in our ways long before we age.

Is change possible and if so then in the field of change, what does not change? My letters to you change. The breadth of affection, never. The highway beckons and like a lonesome motel I go to it.

Do not stop giving form to that which will one day go without. Express what is learned, that others may follow. I urge you to share the loveliness of your shoulders. I urge you to restore the red-winged blackbird to its rightful home in the cosmos.

Winter is coming. Who goes without their beloved goes cold. A thousand daisies forge bravely onward into the dream of no-Spring. I am here, as always, folding and unfolding in the nameless dark.

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