Discarded Carpets in the Far Corners of Heaven

Today I am a cup filled to overflowing, a chalice whose joy is to spill. Love shapes and names and refactors all things. 

Geese circle the cornfield three, four times then angle off south to where I am not. Okay then.

Chrisoula wearing blue in the garden, leaning over the bean plants, filling harvest bowls as the sun sets. Blushing red of apples in the tall grass. Beyond the church steeple, hints of blue, as if promising it will not always rain. 

I am happy, against all odds.

I thought I knew things, and I do, but they aren't the only things, or even very important things. The trail in is the trail out, though not the only trail in either case. Crescent moon on the far hill saying goodbye.

We who are specks of dust beneath discarded carpets in the far corners of Heaven.

A practice of nonresistance, acceptance: the whole world an altar and our living a vast offering. Hummingbirds darting on a side of the house where they usually don't. A reflection in the mirror owes a lot to light, but you still can't see seeing.

I will place this sentence here, and the next one after it. Photographs from the 1930s introduced during a ZBA meeting as evidence of where there was and was not a driveway. Often birds will not land where I am - even when I am writing and not holding a gun - and for this I will never not repent.

Maple trees moving gently in breezes that are the name being written on my heart.

The river even holier than yesterday.