Chrisoula points out that time will end before the things I want to say will end, and this is true. Flexibility is a virtue but in certain contexts so is stubbornness, so don’t ask me. Walking slower past farms with donkeys, who doesn’t.
The slow blossom of maple trees up and down Sam Hill Road, mica glittering in melty runoff. The body matters less than we think and yet we really only appreciate this when we accept fully the complex and terminal loveliness of the body – it’s a playground more than anything else. The arcing flight of pigeons interrupted by the straight line of a hawk.
Surrendering to yet another dialogue about fishing, exhausted now by all talk of food that does not include gardens and sharing. You were my lesson, well-learned. On the horizon, yet another offer.
Time and the body are the same, it’s important to see this, really see this, and you will know you have seen it when you are no longer vexed by either time or the body. To Tara Singh I owe nothing but gratitude, especially for his use of the word “application.” The precision of certain stained-glass windows.
A look in her eyes that means I am going to soon exercise the best use to which my knees and tongue are put. Rarely listless, averse always to boredom, and the confusing space where all this merges with stillness. May I show you the spot on Flat Iron Road where I long to sit quietly with you for hours, watching red-wing blackbirds in the wetlands?
Looking up from Dickinson’s Collected – which poem I forget – and blinking in the light, amazed that such a mind existed, let alone managed to express itself in words. The envelope is not the message! Easter means what you want it to mean so ask yourself: what does Easter mean?
Finally I say yes to the offer of donuts, agree to come down off the cross. What’s the story indeed.
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