No More Dirty Silver

Waking later than usual, pausing at the top of the back porch stairs before chores, gaze shifting from Main Street to the gardens and pasture and back. Time passes. Everything is still and quiet, touched with frost. Rainbows everywhere, prisms are the way. I will die one day and that day will not be the end so tell me again what I should fear? I miss the moon when it's not visible. Was Kimberley helping or hurting when she told me that story about childhood and friendship? Between light and dark, both of which are predicated on gaze (which itself cannot be seen), this: this this. No more holidays, no more dirty silver, no more making her pay behind the church. Moses got it backwards, the subsequent anthologists were also all confused (i.e., Ex. 33:20) but it's okay, I'm here. "Why do I insist on pretending I'm alone when I'm not alone" is not the question, it's the answer. In other words, my turn. My turn to sing hosannas, my turn to linger in your low valley and tea fields, my turn to live prayerfully with Her by the river. This tongue, it tasted Her once, and has been burning ever since.