The man formerly known as the Man Without Shoes rises, puts on wool socks and another man's shoes, and goes downstairs to make coffee. Three a.m., shivering and grateful, mostly alone, same old thing now thirty years running. At midnight snow was falling but now it is not. He writes after snow, starlight. Sits, kneels and paces in darkness, the house cold and the wind loud. What is wordy, what is not. Christ no longer visits, having taken up residence. In the heart is the only object in an otherwise empty cosmos. A long prayer that once again I do not know the end of until I reach its end. Imagine the Titanic, imagine Gary Gilmore. Imagine survivors of the roaring. At dawn a bald eagle floats low over the pasture, brushing crowns of snow-riven hemlock. Thank you Jesus! Thank you Bill and Helen. Crescent moon fading like the end of crucifixion. How happy we are when we consent to be happy together! The Nameless One attending always. Season of icicles, blustery radiance. Little rainbows everywhere. Chrisoula the other I agree to become, then forget forever, again. Season of the end of sin. Season of beginning, again, in love: this love, in which error is not possible, nor ends.
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