Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Mostly after Dark

The way that we are wives, the way that we are husbands. When the spade strikes a certain way, you can hear the weeds sigh giving up. Ghostly mushrooms sprouting in pockets of damp manure gone hours later. Under the watchful eyes of sheep and horses, the earth submits to our intentions. Nisargadatta was confused but confident and confusion is what we want so . . . Prior to silence is after the flood, as after the flood is sitting down to undress. Massage my feet, rub my right arm? Every night around 3 a.m. you reach across the bed, forgetting that she sleeps in another room now. There is a river in the distance, audible mostly after dark, and further away there is a surf that roars embracing the beach. You can look for the source - you can turn quickly to catch a glimpse - but the source is neither behind you nor at the beginning. Rain falls while you work and you keep working. Why not? How soft the rain is on your cross-bearing shoulders! How happy you have become - against long odds - knitting a garden to the sky, leaving notes here and there for the ones who are coming after.

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