Atop the Low Hill Sighing with Happiness

Mist rises in the meadow. Translucence is angelic and always has been, I can say that now. Wedge of moon right where I left it.

Time to take down the scarecrows. The blind horse stumbles more these days, which we wonder is it winter coming or is something new going wrong. A phone ringing which you cannot find, though your searching grows increasingly frantic - that nightmare.

One day I will just leave, easy as a screen door closing in summer. Steam rises off the coffee. It is not that I am haunted but that I am predisposed to haunting.

Say what you want is hard precisely because what you really want is the end of wanting, which is the one thing want won't let you have. Monasticism is the last prism. It is time to take down the scarecrows - don't let me forget.

A few stars reminding me it's cold. I shake my arms after tossing the hay, gold threads sailing off my body into the sky. Dad didn't mind me suffering physical pain and had no idea at all how to address the not-unrelated existential crisis, hence our shared role in the atonement.

"Baby please don't go." We kiss a lot outside, always have, as yesterday at the garden gate, the dusk making everything hard to see, we kissed in the new way we have discovered of kissing, and after walk hand-in-hand to the house - lit up, atop the low hill - , sighing with happiness. On Sundays one sleeps in.

What is carved from quartz and floats above the apple trees singing. There's something about up but what.