Tuesday, November 16, 2021

Even the Dove

Splitting wood. Wondering did early Buddhists sing. Raking leaves as the dusk grows heavier, mind emptying of even the dove customarily sent forth. Ages pass, bridges pass. Mist on the mountain, floating slowly south towards the river. The bridal chamber is empty, save for two cigarette butts half-hidden by a gray quilt and a coffee cup with stains indicating two mouths sipped from it. Loneliness gets you. We all need a detective from time to time. One lingers in the morning at the barn - not rushing to ferry hay to the horses - listening to the chickadees reminding the world of a great love. What is this ongoing emphasis on correction? It begins to rain again and so I leave the quiet light of the apple trees and go inside to try again to pray in the way I am asked to pray. Om shanti om shanti om shanti. Something something something. 

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