Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Still North

Behavior reflects belief. Thought is not the gift. And true stillness consists only of the acceptance that nothing is truly still. North, always north.

Blossoms appear on the backyard rose bush, insisting that the only problem I have is solved, and asking would I learn it now. Tea in the old way, as swallows dive and tuck the blustery sky. Open for me, that I might better find my way to you. Awareness, emptiness, albatross, pine tree and - naturally - a mailbox.

The neighbor's rooster hoarsely cries. Ferns belie a nautilus curl never not attending. Naked is one way but there are other - more ecstatic - ways. He wrote in the back of a pickup surrounded by boxes of garlic and the sun that shone on him shines on you which matters.

A welter, a mystery, a train. Writing follows what insight? Settling in the new silence where trees alone can teach us grace. When is morning not a form of a hunger studying the holes in satisfied?

We all blunder on the way to seeing perfect now. Observe closely the parts of us that fit and allow the hymn its profligate organ. I wrote "survival" but meant "goldenrod" and so the sentence brings her closer yet. Oh come for Christ's sake where I can feel it too.

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