Towards the Invisible Moon

Softening into people, all of them. Luminous tea cups and other leftovers. We who are happiest in the kitchen. Well-salted cast iron pans given away for free. Scrambled eggs with avocado on corn wraps, onions fried to a crisp in butter, maple syrup drizzled on breakfast sausage. Who lives in the Irish whistle that we never play? Cat fur on the zafu, a metaphor to which I return from time to time, ever bent on remembering what seems to require it never be forgotten. The mind has structure, its structure is not separate from its function, and its function is your joy, endlessly looping through the critter you are in the company of all the other critters. One day there will be a last apple ever, and it will fall or not fall, and it will not matter what I know in that moment, or do not know. Blossoming mosquitos. The patience our living requires, one step after another leading us slowly towards the invisible moon that is our shared heart, in the sky that is our shared body, the cosmos of our love.