What luxurious dark in which to lose oneself and discover what is not alienable. Light rain at 3 a.m., faint smell of passing skunks and - oddly - bird song not quite contained in the lilac. So the blessing begins, so the hymn stutters forth, and so I walk - away from this and into that - again.
When we put it down in words, it feels concrete, and yet a blade of grass can undo it and often does. F. brought me bluets bunched in her tiny hand, and also a smooth rock. What we mean by "heart" is what we mean by "love," so why not just say it? Entangled ascension teasing out rhymes.
Somewhere up there - beyond all this undulating darkness - is the moon, while somewhere in here - also undulating - is the idea of the moon, and light, and yearning and - most helpfully - the possibility of perfection. Expression matters. Gently I shift away from the lush and personal and desirable and toward the rocky desert of which I went so long afraid. Begin with genuflection, proceed to Benedictine lauds, and then rise and walk beyond where walkers go.
The forest yields no insights for once and so I skip a little over muddy rocks. The slip by which we are defined has already happened so we move now in the direction of healing, which is forever in the nature of anonymity. A full belly and a hand to hold? Turtles are a form of sojourn, the soul preparing its leap.
Well, the mail comes and goes, and one contemplates the space between choice and decision, and finds as always the borderless country. A preferential poetry? She inclined naturally toward flowers and light without in any way compromising her intuitive understanding of space. And the mystery spilling where we kiss its liniment seam.
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