Mere Traces of Love

Oh my grace, the maya today is so instructive and delicious.

Being dialed in to black bears, having a clue what the crow thinks when it hesitates before flying away. 

The road is adjacent to a river, and I cannot choose which to follow: this this.

Lost in interior monologues that sometimes crest like waves and are joined by the cresting semantics of the other.

Letting go of everything, including letting go. 

A honeybee drowned in the horse's water.

In heaven, she folds and refolds a quilt she made when young, when her sister was still alive, and life was not yet framed by death.

Love letters and other arts at which I excelled to what in the end was mostly suffering.

And begin. 

Are we perhaps mere traces of love, currents in a vast cosmos we are incapable of describing.

Sunlight on the stone path out front, let's wiggle our toes together. 

Ant soul, daisy soul, our soul.

Parisols.

The Sex Pistols. 

Maybe let's not awaken, maybe that's the way to peace and understanding.

Skunky odor of ready-to-harvest cannabis out past the compost. 

So much comes down to my mouth in the end. 

Watering the garden in the dim light of before-dawn, knowing somewhere a fox is watching me, and hating me, and knowing enough to be scared.

So much comes down to accommodating the power of the other.

Who is never not my mind nor in it as the one.