A Vermont of Our Own Making

Biting off the distance. Eyes are windows behind which the soul lives, yes, but the actual living the soul brings forth is mouthy - breathing and chewing, kissing and licking and swallowing, saying and singing and praying. Snow falls and for once I don't go barreling through it at four a.m. in search of poems but stay inside, bundled under quilts, drinking hot coffee. Naked was the previous incarnation, now I'm dressed for the choir loft. If you ask Jesus to show himself, Jesus will show himself, but you'll probably miss him in the crowd of your preconceptions and their offspring expectation. In my dreams now, there are frequent references to skillful navigation of difficult situations - car crashes, burning cities, churches built like mazes, altars doubling as slave camps. Yesterday I allowed myself to imagine a date with you - a long walk around the lake talking, bread and cheese and tea at a little table after, then going home to make love, slow and intense, Dylan's Planet Waves looping in the background. Of course we lived in a Vermont of our own making. How happy we can be! The snow falls so softly I can hear it a mile away. Beloved, ask instead to recognize Jesus. There is nowhere we are not as one.