Up from Syllables and Glances

And then it is afternoon, the sky full of light and soft folds. Crossing the road to say hi, then a conversation struggling up from syllables and glances, and staying with it because how else does the world get better? Women who appear in dreams but at a distance, dreams that appear in women even more distant. Sun setting over Springfield, the cathedral lit up in a pale red light, the wedding a thousand years ago still echoing in my skull, still rendering me disinclined to wander. Wind moves the ruined prayer flags, a shred of paper tumbles over the hardtop, comes to rest against a maple tree. You make contact with you - some essence, some purity - and you linger in it but there are other levels, next steps, and you are tired, so so tired. Mowing over the rotting apples, filling in abandoned groundhog holes, gathering deadfall for late fall fires. Something stirs in the underbrush, a couple bees drift across the overly-bright goldenrod, and somewhere on the other side of Route Nine a chainsaw rattles starting. Grateful these days, keeping it simple, coasting on a tide of joy attended by the last violets, et cetera.