Is It that the Wind Knows

Praying a rosary driving to Pittsfield, in no rush to either finish or arrive. Steamed bok choi with lemons and pepper. The closer you are to a mountain the harder it seems to climb, yet when you set foot on the trail and begin, it's no big deal. In other words, another dream of her. We sat together on a piano bench, we did not touch the keys, only each other's hands. I asked the Lord to forgive me, heal me, make me whole and this is what I got. In darkness assessing. Suddenly sex feels like a lot of work, a big responsibility, like running a small country, to which insight Chrisoula says, "who doesn't want to sleep with Switzerland?" Raw garlic for breakfast, tea and pickled ginger. Who is that singing in the meadow? Lies that remain the best way to get at the truth, which is that we are all terrified, of lovelessness and love both. How is it that the wind knows my name? Moonlight in the hemlocks, how can anybody complain about anything ever. A neighborhood cat passes by with a dead chickadee bouncing in its mouth, oh well, chickadees aren't bodies either. Notes on the back of an envelope, basically what these sentences are, this half-assed life happily passing me by. So much depends on status, estimations and our willingness to investigate ever-deeper levels. Crying at Emily Dickinson's grave, harder than I cry at my father's. This this, you know?