Wednesday, February 1, 2023
The Moon of the Sleeping Bear floats hidden in clouds, I study it carefully after morning chores, perceiving in my heart - which as Emily Dickinson makes clear is the world calling itself home - a sense of driftiness on cosmic seas. Call it prayer if you must but when you are ready there is something prior to language and outside the universe. What is rose-colored, amethyst, what is the interior of a shell months after its meat has been transfigured in an oystercatcher's gut. One doesn't look at the sky, one is in the sky, one is made of what the sky is made of. There are no secrets, there are no mysteries, only truth coming forth as through a prism. Act and attend accordingly. A thousand-petaled lotus, a crucifix made of light, a ceramic Buddha wreathed in ivy. Snow melting under apple trees where in summer we made love beneath the watchful eyes of a blind Appaloosa. What chooses, what accepts. What helps, what does not, and by not helping, helps make clear what does. Resting in Love with Her always now, getting better at not denying it, allowing even its utility to be undone in me. I remember gathering stones on the beaches of Cape Cod with you before the wedding, they are in the hay loft in glass containers now, symbols of spiritual ballast, witnesses unto the one shared journey we are learning how to share. Equals making clear what is the same and what is not? Look at me writing yet another poem in this briefly outpouring light, look at Chrisoula studying the melting garden, mentally planning rows of kale and spinach. January is four syllables fitted perfectly to the tongue, God abides no less. Look at Christ dancing happily in the shallows, splashing my face with tears of joy.
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