Thursday, January 30, 2014

Gretel's Insight

At 5 a.m. stars glisten through pine trees. Twenty pages write themselves. Love is not what teases. Love is never perceived in glimpses.

We shrug our way into bodies and begin again the long ascent. One studies Latin roots, cuts of rabbit and Gretel's insight. Earlier I paused by the brook, happy and cold. Be cautious of the inclination to filter the given moment through preference.

Thus lilies, thus chickadees. You tape your glasses and continue reading long after the others are asleep. Who cries out to the stars, cries out in vain indeed. On the other hand, boiled coffee with spoonfuls of sugar.

Oil paintings of nineteenth century whalers abound. Does it matter that we forget many of our dreams? The dog shifts in her nest of blankets waiting. All intentions are idle.

As even in winter the store sells lettuce and kale. When asked about deer patterns in the forest I usually lie. One refuses to accept the possibility of no problems and thus they continue. Such little lights, such a deep black sky.

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