Sunday, November 29, 2020

Consumed in the Many Furnaces

The neighbor's chimes, a loveliness in pre-dawn darkness as I go about my chores - hay for the horses, checking fence lines, talking in low tones to the blind one, checking traps, then coming indoors to a next cup of coffee. The soul is bundled up in a body yet like a shock of wheat yearns to be consumed in the many furnaces that together comprise the world. What they used to say about how it works if you work it. What is your worth and who establishes it? Morning light in north-facing windows, the hemlocks still for the first time in three days, and a good enough bunch of poems, fruits of a lifelong disciplined practice. Once you set a goal of truth, what happens? Who is with you? Who pulls away? When you call, I am here, and yet it is not enough. Candles, catch-alls, catacombs. My love is a long silence, my woman a lake with more on its mind than depth. "How" was always a better question than "why" upon "why" upon "why." This heart, it witnesses thusly.

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