Tuesday, December 7, 2021
Many Generations of Dove
Rumi's point about how rarely we hear the music and yet - as one - all dance to it anyway. Footprints in the snow, mine and a fox's, one of us knowing better than the other which way home. No trembling now you're holding the light and we're all counting on you. Who misses the forest? Imagine dance parties ten thousand years ago, drums and fires, how confused they would be with John Lennon. Family connections. Passing on the cinnamon coffee, then later not passing. A week after the last dose the mushrooms came by with a handful of hastily-done watercolors, mostly of cartoon demons but one or two nice ones of a manger, reminding me of laws I tend to take as suggestions. Cars sailing off cliffs, men riding on horses, letters in their envelopes whispering sonnets. There was not one but many generations of dove fluttering in warm rains above that ridiculous ark, those brave sailors and trapped quadrupeds. Always ask which story you're furthering, be sure it's the one you mean. Hemlock trees saying even the chainsaw, even the chainsaw.
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