Apostles of Love

We are homesteaders, contemplatives, we are not fucking around, the whole marriage comes down to this. Tea cups full of moonlight on the back porch. Polished quartz behind the barn. More rain, less rain. No rain but snow. Trimming back the raspberries, raking the pasture. The world is an orchard untouched by God. What is eclipsed, contained, what cannot be ever. What is created. It hurts less when you pray - what hurts less - if you have to ask - . Morning sunlight glides across the floor, opposite nothing. Across the cosmos, the Apostles of Love rise as one to minister unto uncountable Merchants of Death. My brilliant dangerous mother, my distant beautiful father. Their shared heart a fire by which everything lives, in which everything dies.