Traces of light through which a solitary wren sings but forty minutes later the range of perception widens to bird song, dawn and inquiry. Longing disguises something, or seems to, and yet cannot undo itself. The nature of a gift matters, as it is inherent in what we are in truth, and so attention to it is never not merited. Owls only appear solitary and bears are more frightened of us than we know. Where would I be without metaphor?
All night the sea rises and falls, rises and falls, and rivers wind towards it while starlight continues unabated. Gravity, like love, is never not at work on us. The perception of sacrifice is also a gift, so long as one is willing to listen to a good teacher. After days of rain, sunlight, as after hours of dark, the dawn. One does not step into resonance, one simply stops denying resonance. Keep going is good advice indeed.
I write while the water boils for tea, close to the kettle so that its whistle will be brief, and not awaken those who sleep. Argument is not the problem, nor are clocks, nor are maps or churches. The neighbor's horse stamps and huffs, perhaps directing a wandering fox to widen its circle. In my dream, you sought me out in a library, and a hidden narrator championed my obscure but devoted scholarship. Thus this writing, this way.
It is possible to write one's way through - and beyond - suffering, just as the body is only one way to bear it. How briefly the lilac blooms, as if happiness really could be contained in a sentence. One is at home in the so-called journey or not, and the distinction matters. Swallows again, trailing childhood and the gentleness inherent in masculinity. Without you I would never have learned to bake bread, nor helped a daughter grieve, nor accepted my love of stones, nor - as in time we all must - set the weighty symbols aside and go directly home.
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