Hands Full of Moonlight

What am if not constantly being found? Waking early to bake bread.

 

Sometimes I think cannabis is basically anxiety masquerading as insight porn. Going all the way to the river with my hands full of moonlight.

 

Garcia’s insight that choice complicated joy, and his approach to music accordingly. Is it me or are the cardinals more insistent this year?

 

Sleeping through dreams, one after another. Clouds fall through the sky.

 

We are never as far away from one another as we seem. Playing guitar in the hay loft, learning as always what it means to make a noise.

 

When in death shall we know better or more than we know now? Misreading social cues as always, finding ways to make it not so obvious.

 

First dandelion. June bug, jitterbug, litterbug, ______.

 

Crows flying low across the highway, a sense of alarm or am I just remembering something about childhood again? Limping a little after.

 

In my heart is a little farm, and on that farm  a man and a woman grow old together happily. The purple maroon of distant hills, an imperative of some kind, a dream.

 

There are no more sentences in me but there is still a yearning to write, does this prove Gilbert’s point that the heart never fits the journey, one always ends before the other? You say amen, I say begin.