A Sweetness Some Mornings

Some mornings you sit and watch clouds pass the moon and it's a sweetness, it's more than a sweetness. Some mornings you stand in the rain waiting. How warm the bed is when she enters, pushing aside the old sleeping bag, getting down to sheets, the dog and I sitting up until she's ready, then snuggling down into heretofore unimaginable bliss. Grated apple and crushed banana in the pancake batter, smell of day-old coffee and the kids playing poker, nothing wild. Ragged flannel bathrobe cinched tight against the cold while you write, nothing in particular, same old words, but still. This, that and so forth is often just fine. On the cusp of sleep a crow cries and farther away one answers - or is it the same crow flying away calling me to follow? In my dreams pieces of silver and disciples lugging baskets full of bread and broken penny whistles. Homemade suet with fat from the pig attracts more than just birds, don't it? We walk up the hill slowly, shivering because we didn't bring hats, and don't even see a deer in consolation. Constellation? A lot happens in what we are calling awareness! The neighbors calling a lost dog, your lover baking squash bread, Mason jars filled with a thick sweet cream, marbles left over from childhood, yours. Who opens goes slower unto graceful cries coming. Is it me or is the goldenrod dying faster than usual this year? Last night we ran outside at the cry of geese, wondering would we see them in the moonlight and we didn't but it was okay, we were breathless, we were alive, we were honoring all the right things. Embrace the epistolary impulse and be done with it! Between acorns in Holyoke a crayon, four pennies and a condom. The Buddha says "your move Jesus!" He wrote as always just outside the prophet's tent, one eye fixed on the gathering storm.