Every Temple

A little after two a.m. rain clouds thin and a wedge of moon nearly all the way west brightens the landscape I know by heart. The right word matters! What we write writes us, as what we read reads us, a simple truth that for too long eluded me. A longing for mystery breeds iconic detectives, yet as Sherlock Holmes pointedly observed, the answer is always right there in the open. What did Bohm say? Hide what is sought within the seeker because the seeker will never think to look there? Something like that. Yet I do stumble coming back through the south field, a little moonlight glinting on frosty grass, guided largely by the dog's breath, faintly visible in noisy exhalations. L. is awake - hopefully painting, possibly worrying about her mortgage - and I can hear the train two towns distant, working its way through the Adirondack foothills. A welcome darkness of which our passage is composed? Well, we can only push the ones we need so far before crawling back to them needy and broken. A nest of blankets in which her nakedness is better than coffee? Yes, that. I feel my way to where she is softest and whisper going down, every temple more welcome than the last.