Yet Another Theophany

Another window at which to linger, another landscape to translate poorly. It's funny until it's not: there is only this and it's all there is. Tea candles - an afterthought - fade as the night deepens. Only one of us ever sleeps. Day before Advent, remind me again why we celebrate that which neither asks nor wants for celebration. As at another juncture the plea was, write or don't write but for Christ's sake write. Cold pie in the kitchen, cheapest wine I know. What slips, settles, what floats away without looking back. "Forget me not," she demanded, she whom the Cosmos could not help but obey. Yet another theophany, thank you Jesus, thank you Buddha. Thank you Bill and Helen. What is on fire goes out and what remains serves no one and yet is not not sacred. It's not amen, it's something else, what something else, I don't know. Look at November, here and not here, and fading either way. Like the local diners of childhood? Yes, exactly like those diners. Forgive me not? Before Emily Dickinson, my imagination fails. Are you saying the world really is a sacristy? I'm saying what she said. The garden put up and snow falling all morning. The heart fails, Life goes on. I'm saying that.