Friday, August 6, 2021

These Stumbling Feet

Two neighbors in two days ask about the violets which are now profluent to a degree that calls attention to itself. When you stop going to church because what's not holy? Oh Emily Dickinson I know you're smarter than me and braver than me but also, please maybe hold the door open just a little while longer?

An hour passes shucking corn, extending the quiet that attends praying the rosary, which itself extended the quiet of weeding the potatoes. Dew on my toes. One is in relationship with wasps in a way that feels instructive but a little dangerous.

In a dream Chrisoula wears black beneath a translucent robe made of starlight and I paw the earth at her feet. Hot coffee! Harvest now includes raspberries, blackberries, apples, rhubarb, cucumbers, lettuce, kale, cabbage, broccoli and tomatoes and much is made holy thereby. 

Bikes left out in the rain, a sadness. Morning passes letting morning pass without interference. My heart is made of stained glass and ten thousand sentences not unlike these. I'm so happy to be a primate that loves kissing and other forms of cooperation!

Walking down the hall quietly, side-stepping the loose boards that creak, not wanting to wake anyone. This endless prayer that is so personal and yet includes the cosmos, for which my gratitude is a kind of hot gas, making everything expand. I remember crying, being taught not to cry, but insisting on crying, an early lesson in masculinity, boundaries, penalties, courage and the deeps.

When briefly I entertained being a sailor and thus sailed and then moved on, called by forests, as one is called away from fiction to poetry for example. Let us share theologies, make sandwiches, wiggle our toes in cold rivers while talking, let us make the stars happy they invented us. I wish I was more comfortable using the word "boogie."

Empty graves reframing crosses. Other lights that now make clear these stumbling feet are themselves the path. 

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