Tuesday, July 7, 2020

Without Any Pattern

Don't ask what home is for I cannot say. Am not allowed to know? Rivers are patterns, the veins on the back of your hand are patterns, but the whole is without any pattern. Light streams through dying hemlocks, and one revisits their father's last words, which had to do with how thirsty he was. Honesty requires discipline, which requires an ability to see beyond the emotional tenor of a given moment, which requires better teachers than I was given. We wake and our waking carries others with us. Make no promises? I walk a long time along familiar trails in familiar forests, back and forth, waiting on deer and bear, skunks and woodchucks, turkey and quail. "Better listen," she whispers in a dream, and I come to all at once, worried about my marriage. In another dream, you are allowed to learn you are dreaming, while in yet another, a long dialogue with a turtle yields instructions for managing time better. What I've desecrated loses none of its beauty, none of its integrity. Roses in compost, me alongside. As if I were in love, or the Lord and I shared a single clear intention for joy, yours.

No comments:

Post a Comment