Still Blind Mendicants

Well, not metaphysics, not anymore. But maybe - at least so long as cognitive science remains semantically inaccessible. Apple tree limbs dominates the new burn pile, the hummingbird finds the new feeder readily. In terms of lilac, one always arrives, one always gets it. Husserl is oddly hard to take seriously until suddenly you're like, holy shit, this guy is for real. Ha ha. Once in a while it's nice to just shut up and listen. Where one doesn't fit, there the divine resides as well. We work through the chives, trim the blackberry, put a little stone wall right and discuss - and bless you love for discussing - mowing around a patch of bluets. A prayer foundering, yet grounded. My new shoes appeal to everyone but my feet are still wanderers, still blind mendicants in search of a land called alone. Perhaps the field is grief, and the work healing, and my Carhartts a kind of cassock. A long times passes while a long time passes and it does, it does. Those roads you don't drive are still there because when your eyes are closed you see them. Here comes that curve again. Me and you apart, never more together. Thus gassho, gassho rei, thus this.