Dark is a certain kind of next, but not the only one. At a late juncture one realizes that reading, not writing, is salvation. And sharks swim in warming seas, somehow not our enemy.
Gazing for hours at the complex beauty of her face, its shifting sands and waters. Nobody knows the troubles I've seen and I don't know theirs either, and yet.
We meet in crossword puzzles, reheated soup. We meet in rescue dogs whose joyful romping speaks to us of grace. Butterfly heart, dulcimer soul.
My body ceases.
In moonlight going only halfway to the pasture, satisfied the blind horse is okay, standing quietly facing north.
A sound the river makes in early winter.
Ten minutes with the right woman can change your life forever. The world is a beam of light. Daisies, bluets. Do roses get tired of bearing so much symbolism?
The effort one makes to be other than what they are. In moonlight softening, or is it obvious, has it been said already.
Who am I to say? When our people become the other's people and then beyond that when we see there are not even people at all.
May I never rise off my knees, may I never speak but in thanks and praise.
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