Any Sense of Danger

Thérèse to Jesus: "To love You as You love me I must borrow Your love - only then will I know peace." The geese are still and quiet when I pass, the distance buffeting us from any sense of danger or other opportunity. Later watering replanted rhubarb.

We have these hearts which beat in our chests, and we have these hearts which hover just outside us, in gold light, reminding us we are not alone. Who does not get religious around ferns in spring does not yet know the grace and mercy of God. The dashes of Emily Dickinson.

Half-opened doors. The early prayers melt away, leaving me talking to myself like when I was a child, delighted with the chambers of my mind, which were full of light and voices that were not my own. Indifference is always a manifestation of privilege, one of the worst.

Since the kittens arrived last year, I am only allowed to hang prisms in the hayloft, which makes certain joys harder to attain which, oddly or otherwise, isn't the big deal I expected. Oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins. This morning's eggs fried on top of caramelized onions and chives.

Broken windows in unused barns. One sleeps the way others body surf seas the morning after a storm. We reach the end of something - know it by feel - and the writing does not catch up and once again we have to sit quietly with the possibility that the wordiness in us - what lives in us by telling us what lives in us - is finished in us.

Swallows at dusk: learning cursive was one of the great joys of my life. The pile of books on the bureau ascends, reaching a height one might call perilous but doesn't (oh wait). It is not my place to make demands any longer but to accept what is given.

A vast cosmic flower in infinite blossom. Turn: look: what is behind you: can you see how there is nothing behind you: can you see how you are sourceless, parentless, endless, bereft of pedigree, without origin: beyond the reach of et cetera, et cetera.