How deep into the heart of a marigold can you go? In a dream I die, and on a windy steppe, the air full of snow, I must apologize to every animal I have ever killed, and their families unto the seventh generation, and this is a happy dream. Let us discuss the curriculum going forward.
Moving slowly in the hot night, between rain drops, steam rising. Relationships with trees gaining primacy, as if they know something I don't, something even the octopuses don't. A little light here and there, a little sign we are not alone.
A firefly is not useless, even uselessness is not useless. The knees of old men, the teeth of the poor, and the calm of old women who learned how to knit when they were young. Gardens a little after dawn.
Promises that are not fully clear until decades after we make them, when we would not make them anew, and yet live by them still, like soldiers or nuns. Knobs on the sideyard maple where once I cut branches that were scraping the house. Bumble bees drowsing in bunches of clover.
One learns things by rivers, doesn't one. Apples ripening, falling to the earth. We carry ourselves through a long day, lay down in bed, and moments later a gossamer moonbeam settles across our feet.
Our bodies gathered like penitents, or our bodies like churches in which the many penitents gather. You think about the past, you think about saying goodbye. Breezes in the low hills to the west, coming down the valley like bored cats, passing through the farm, slowing down in the cornfields, then out across the river.
And what was will be for there are no signs anywhere of change. I walk farther than usual along Fairgrounds Road, losing all sense of coming as distinct from going, alone and not alone both.
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