Cranes Leave the Far Field

I'm okay mostly, most of the time, just lonely. Waking up, doing it all again, falling to sleep on strong winds that rarely let me dream in peace.

At night while others sleep wandering back and forth - living room, dining room, foyer - gazing out windows at blue moonlight on crisp snow, the village quiet, the stars joy-filled but distant. Daisies fill the cosmos, tens of thousands of them, spilling and blossoming, rehearsing the resurrection. 

Women who scare me still, octopuses who comfort me. Bright sun all day.

Ghosts remind me they are dead, wonder when I'll let them go, bored with my fear. The bible, that generative unbelievable but intimately livable text. 

Suddenly a fatigue to which I am alien. My mother finds old silverware in the basement, knives and forks from childhood, and I take one fork home and use it all the time now, praying God it will help heal this fear of hunger.

Ceramic elephants. A child, a man who protected the child, together blind in a world that was never as bad as they were taught - and taught - to believe.

Raveling, unraveling, re-raveling. Jesus gently reminding me he does not want followers but fellow healers, which shifts our relationship totally.

The bank to the river was steep, a cliff at times, and this, too, was a metaphor that could not be ignored. Chrisoula folding laundry, filling me in on her dying uncle, family in Greece mourning.

I don't know how it came to be like this. At night wondering what her body would be like in bed, not sexually just companionate, as a place one goes to remember peace, rest in peace, et cetera. 

Eventually the cranes leave the far field and we are more alone than ever. The man without shoes - who struggles to sleep - now wonders if at some critical juncture he was left unbaptized?