The Heart at Last Ends

Strawberry picking later but for now wordiness in the presence of clover that escaped the mower's blade. Red in summer dreams of death and who can help. We are always narrowly missing something.

What am I when you are not here to describe me? How simple the truth is vs. how complex the veils with which I obscure it is one way to say it. Cameras abound and Beauty is not yet compromised so relax into the gift you always are.

A sad woman an arm's length away brokers convention in order to demonstrate need. Enormous kale leaves and livid stems of swiss chard and enough shade in which to talk about the quality of soil in New England. We are all emulating the patient quiet umbrella maker.

You enhance my awareness of circumference. God sounds good. I mean long walks that go longer than you think and end in places that never imagined tea.

Decisions abound, or seem to, and what is broken is revealed as not broken, and healing becomes merely a question of seeing this. The emphasis on undoing can too readily be translated to outdoing, a flaw to which I am perennially disposed. Jesus insists on nothing, even when it rains.

I mean that dance and no other and preferably together. A grand alchemy in which the heart at last ends its obsession with otherness. How sad one becomes watching morning sunlight slip slowly up and across the rose bush and into the daisies because saying it isn't enough and saying it is all I ever learned of love.

The maple tree is unabashed by autumn is all you need to know about your own body. I'll tell you why we started singing: we listened to the sea and became happy.