What is new. All the ways the world will end. I buy a muffin with coffee, a sign of how tired I am, giving myself a kind of permission I usually refuse. The quiet of the lake surface gently disturbed when I cast my line. All these attempts, all these efforts. A little lift, the Lord reminding me I’m not alone.
Let me be your midnight loon. Climbing trails to the old fire tower. In my dream there was another way of living happily but it was behind me, kind of like childhood, meaning it could neither be reached nor forgotten. A song coming through the forest comprised of birds and wind. Imagine no caveats.
Imagine no alley cats. Broken windows we board up rather than replace, that life. Dad’s ghost softens, reminiscent of candlelight, and I soften too, endlessly linked to this beautiful damaged man. What is finished ever? Sometimes specificity hurts, what can we do.
Memorizing the steps to a dance that I will not get to until after the body is gone. Stable perception in which love points the way to itself. It’s tempting, isn’t it, to just walk away from creation altogether. Sitting on the stairs at 3 a.m., letting the world wake up in me, slipping into the soft places where even death is a familiar friend. Shall we recalibrate?
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