In My Arms

Imagine axes. I mean imagine ringing, not roaring, and the scent of pine and honeysuckle unhindered by gasoline. Wrought-iron roosters gaze North as if to say that is where the storm begins. And the small rain down can rain . . .

All night opening envelopes filled with moonlight, studying the fireflies up against such darkness. The question is not whether to write but whether to stop writing, and the distinction matters. Does the lilac bush rest after its brief violet flourish? Goldfinches after the sun rose, dandelion down floating in the air, and overhead the same rippling cirrus I remember loving in childhood.

We enter the forest one way but leave another. The flagstones darken, and the snakes retreat to nests beneath the porch. Longing for Gretel's sensibility may mean that you lack Hansel's fortitude. Listening to rain at 3 a.m., asleep but not asleep, and sketching - yes, sketching - sentences for the day's writing.

It is as if a door were opening somewhere over the sea, slowly but steadily, and from it unfurled a tidal spool of light. I am tired of reading about what I experience. Is it true then that the time for learning is ended? A woman from Hawaii writes, invites me to visit, and my heart lifts like a dogged butterfly in stormy winds.

One struggles to identify the ultimate contingency, the ultimate cause. A focus on breath is never entirely unhelpful, though one can attach to anything. Read all about it! Oh Christ that my love were in my arms . . .