One More Theophany

Morning is quiet but productive. Some of us were not allowed to sleep it off. On the other hand, you have to want the crisis, you have to secretly covet the trauma. Peace wants to be found, is what one finds when they look. Pushing sixty, remembering childhood, amazed I survived, got as far as I did the way I am, et cetera. Now what is the answer not the question. Chrisoula knitting while I read Merton's Contemplative Prayer yet again. No more hypotheticals please. Clearing around the potato garden, watching sparrows in the compost. One more winter, please, one more theophany. Something given, something taken, something mistaken but what. Bald eagles hunting up and down the river. Glistening quartz near the fire pit. The poems empty out into my heart, my heart empties out into my soul, my soul empties out into the cosmos, the cosmos has a secret name, yours.