Four a.m. clarity fades. I have to call it back, not unlike working with dogs, that hard-to-manage blend of forcefulness with love. Does tea help? Yes, tea helps.
And thinking of you, too, who gift me at odd hours without asking a thing in return. How happy "how happy chickadees make me" makes me. Well, wordiness. The way geographic distance inhibits the expression of a certain longing while laying manifest another.
Cave amans! Yesterday's lentil soup emptied into Mason jars today reheated and served with slivered apples. I mean the translucent red of the cardinal's wings in flight would break my heart if such a thing were possible (outside the nonsense of metaphor). Dried rose petals stain my fingers and the nights are full of rain.
But would you? The soft maroon fuzz of maple buds at a distance, the plenary warble of the brook in early spring, the first tentative thrust of daffodils. Be with me the space in which all loveliness is witnessed? Or are we - like wandering pine siskins - beyond that now?
Eschew code (he wrote). Some stones were meant for the garden, others the river, while I was meant for Latin. Shreds of birch bark cross what remains of the snow, nearly invisible, the perennial condition of those who consent to be Love's penumbral light. Mercy, beloved, mercy.