Thursday, June 8, 2017
As Simple As Swallows
The urge to speak a certain way, to say it in a way designed to evoke a certain response. One doesn't always know what's coming but coming - like going - happens. The object of desire cannot be denied language, though it may be a private one, all but unrecognizable. We harvest early radishes in a light rain, we plant an extra row of pie pumpkins. Is it as simple as swallows swooping through the purpling sky at dusk? The path steam from the tea takes rising . . . The garden defines us because it feeds us but also because we work hard within it. We are not not the garden. That moment when one notices the collective also notices. The neighbor's kids ask what I'm doing, it's hard to remember not everyone makes sun tea in Mason jars. I can't explain anything, let alone this. Thanks are not always in order but one appreciates the sentiment. It turns out that bearing the spiritual projections of others is not the Lord calling after all. Just because we contribute to ruins doesn't mean we aren't also tourists. The man who swallowed his passport waits on the woman who still isn't sure how - or when maybe (are those different questions - yes they are different questions) - to use hers. Sunlight brightens the back porch. I will go there now to write this.
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