One More Winter

We are dogs in a ring of Heavens. How quiet the house is when Jeremiah is gone. My voice breaks trying to explain why even though I've left the Catholic church I am still grateful for it. Where are you safest and other nontrivial questions.

Hanging laundry. The dining room table fills with jars of dilly beans, corn relish and pickles. You cannot effectively kiss when you are angry, think on this when you are trying to understand that "I am not a body." Folding blankets and quilts for the peace of it, being that man, unapologetically.

She touches my shoulder with three fingers as she passes, and she is briefly then the Goddess Whose name we do not say aloud, and my shoulder fills with blue light, and an ocean opens in the part of my chest I call "heart." Can you not. We grill eggplant and red peppers outside, sun setting, sheep calling, and it is enough, it is sufficient, it is praise unto the Lord our God. We make love outside near the apple trees, we laugh arguing over who gets to be on the bottom, i.e., who gets to star gaze and who gets to gaze at the star-gazer. 

Any object is merely a collection of features noticed by - and organized by - an observer (and an observer is simply a limit on perception). Leftover zucchini pancakes with sour cream, we eat standing in the kitchen, my mind can see nothing but snow, in my heart I am praying God give me at least one more winter. Who is nervous around you, why are they nervous. We who make the moon, we who make the onions, we who make the sea. 

What remains? An aversion to punctuation that is not the crisis we once made it out to be. Popcorn with coriander and garlic powder. Welcome to the difference that does not make a difference, would you like some coffee, would you like to remove your clothes.