Who Has Always Guided Me

Wordiness takes over and I slip towards indiscretion. Where do the chickadees sleep when it snows?

Flakes of snow melt in my coffee. The neighbor's rooster yowls throatily and all foxes prick their ears, nestled in sweaty burrows.

You. How much of my life revolves around that lovelily pronoun.

Candles exhaust themselves and waxy tendrils of smoke curl towards the ceiling. I remember her tattered brown sweater and charcoal sketches and my happiness there, that way.

The steaks marinate in a thrown-together teriyaki sauce. If you are aware of the spiritual level, then simply concentrate all your energies on that, and don't worry what happens in this vale of shadow and dust.

Tired after walking so far in the worst storm in four or five years, I lay down and dream of the old woman who has always guided me, especially in my times of greatest need. Also mirror balls.

Purple finches at the feeder, smell of mushroom omelettes rising. We are painting old chairs the deepest of blues, we are giving ourselves wantonly to the god of our dreams.

And the flakes thicken and slow. And D. at the dump says "that's an awful lot of trash," meaning what am I doing throwing anything away.

I remember with Sophia seeing a bald eagle in the pines off Briar Hill and how quiet we were then but after how talkative. Bears rumble through my sleep, making the usual demands of my energy and time and earning again their sentence.

Consider the possibility that in a very literal and formal way I am not here to save you but the other way around. As word after word gathers and burns, each betraying the only prayer any savior requires.