What if I did not make promises? Or breathe. Like fireflies going back and forth in the pasture, looking for each other in flashes of green light. At night the horses' feet make a hollow sound against the rainy earth. You can be forgiven, apparently, but not always and not totally. Alleluia alleluia? Mountains like cut stone against orange skies at dawn. The writing is mostly a matter of listening now, unalarmed about what is remembered and what is forgotten, much less what is reduced to text. If I had a name for morning, it would have more than two syllables. Throwing rocks at the water, talking and not talking. Like polyphony or field of elephants or something full of grace from whom the Lord is never absent. Whatever sex was, it's something else now, not unlike what happens to apples in October. Receding like a vanquished ghost, taking most communication with it? Rain clouds block the stars, and still the many maple trees attend, their prayers alive in us like rhizomes.
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