The darkness in me, the death. While under pine trees one grows calmer, amazed at what the world offers when we are still and attentive. Saddle bags, sap buckets.
The mushrooms remind us there are other ways to perceive the world, in the same way a bullet reminds us we are soft and full of blood. When will I be an old man. Taking the chainsaw in to be sharpened.
Days of rain pass, the world smells differently, green is noticed differently. Praying in the hayloft near midnight, a familiar desperation entering the mind. How he let go at the end when we were all there but not giving attention to him.
Somehow this all has to do with happiness. The social complexity of Easter in our family, the bad things that have happened, the weight of our shared religious heritage, and the way our kids are growing up with different ideas of what matters. If only I could get everybody to hang prisms in every window.
Chrisoula reminds me of what beaches do to the psyche, I remind her how lonely Icarus is when he lands, his long sojourn in the heavens ended. In our shared heart is a little farm on which no animal is ever eaten. The many writing projects which haunt us.
Writing through the eyes, everything in my brain echoing, coagulating. Tell me again about the elephant’s eye? What Emily Dickinson poems did to me in my late thirties.
You don’t have to go deeper than you already are is more or less the lesson now, one I seem congenitally unable to accept. It will end soon, we will leave together, it’s all okay or it will be.
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