Pickled garlic. Grilled zucchini and eggplant served on cold rice splashed with rice vinegar. Crickets in the barn, scattering when I open the main door, the song temporarily lost.
Goodnight Moon is a perfect text, I don't care what anybody says.
Searching for a certain Celtic god, a legend, anything to explain what happened to the child I was. Fall River in the nineteenth century, the end of monarchies and the beginning of the end of empires. Aches and pains, aspirin and yoga, acceptance.
The one apple with which I was in relationship has fallen, landing in the neighbor's yard, on the other side of an old fence, lost to me forever, a sorrow.
The absence of original ideas, the ongoing patterning of what is already given, which is everything. Starlight at dusk, the river in the distance a low hush, a memory of hands I have held and been healed by. Slowly rearranging the stories I tell about growing up, seeing the way I have been resisting the gentle happiness inherent in the great flux.
So there are no graves, is that what you're saying? Photography is my nemesis. Summer dresses, summer breezes, summer loves.
Light morning rain passes, mushrooms everywhere, a happiness. What does a broken rosary mean, given that meaning can be whatever we like? One reaches the inevitable paradox and lingers a long time, unsure what to do next.
This home I keep in your heart, how humbled I am, gently tending the gossamer parameters. Bells made of moonlight ringing forever in my mind. When what happens is what happens after everything else we thought had to happen happens.
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