The Fullness of Saltless Provision

I don't fit any longer in this body, or don't fit in it very well anyway, and worry what this means for the love we are bringing forth. Thunder rolls west up the valley, far enough way that nobody worries, but close enough to make us hope it'll cool things down in an hour. Across the river, sheep bawl hungrily. How much time is left? What machinations are as yet untried? There are always other ways for living to be which sometimes it is. We dreamed a dream of salt - reckless in our hunger - and years later turned away from those dreams in order to know the fullness of saltless provision. Don't say please, just help yourself and be sure there's enough to go around. People make up games all the time, don't they, and some of us have an easier time than others divining the various rules. Perhaps we will simply lean into each other, watching swallows over the barn, or work together at a shelter feeding the poor before walking home hand-in-hand. At night in summer I light no candle, given fireflies and the heat, but only plod through the house darkly, contemplating what it means to go without and to live without, and how understanding this "withoutness" is a way of possessing. The humbled among us evoke a new prayer. Possibilities abound, my dear. You too.