One awakens to rain at the window and the old dog on the bed, a breathing, a weighty comfort at one's feet. Was it always this way? The forgiven aren't prone to analysis, which probably explains the stacks of books that define where I sleep.
We are neither badgers nor tomatoes yet when pressed to explain the distinction can only fumble in a semantic way. One wakens to find that peach pie they baked as a peace offering yesterday is half gone. House plans litter the table, as if we are finished with understanding home.
J. and I kick at leaves, lean against resinous stumps, pick at threads of a familiar - a family - narrative and call it work, call it clearing the forest. The rain slows and finally stops after our walk and so the hallway smells of muddy boots and sodden fur. I mean certain letters my fathers saved, and some he didn't send.
I wonder aloud what persuades the first bird of morning to sing and Chrisoula says "it knows it is light before you do." I mean the suprising absence of bluets and the dog's sad eyes, which find me wherever I am. The birth of philosophy was the death of us all but God still gives us trout.
Disgraced by price or simply willing to let others pay the price of your (unimpressive) righteousness? The afternoon brightens and passes, like a bellows, like an enormous Godly lungs unfolding. We are moved to kisses by falling water.
A holy sentiment, most holy of sediments. The days are given to polishing garden quartz, collecting yet more deadfall for backyard bonfires, and reading Marsha Norman. Some women want you to hunt for them, others to simply cook, and some are just happy you can build a fire when it's cold.
Gratitude is a way of being more than a response to what transpires. I drifted slowly into sleep on the quiet music of your knitting needles, briefly amazed at how much happiness we sometimes allow.
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