Sitting on the front porch, listening to snow melt. Tibetan peace flags gray and mangled. The sun falling behind the hill beyond Route Nine.
I am inside something but what.
There are no windows or doors, why. Weeks pass without a poem until at last I write one just to do it, remember that I can. Remind myself I can?
Who is with you in the dream you are alone?
Irish Setters in memory running hard along the trail. Pine forests and mountain brooks crystalline and pure. Snow storms in memory, being lost in memory.
Not lonely so much as confused about how to accept and extend love, same problem we all have, and not the worst problem to have either.
It gets better? The guy who cries at the butterfly conservatory and, later, the guy who laughs with the wife of the guy who cries at the butterfly conservatory at the guy who cries at the butterfly conservatory, is the same guy, me.
Who is angry, hurt, who is helping. The invitation to prayerfully deepen flows through the cosmos, is in fact the cosmos, but is often received in unnecessarily strictured ways, why.
We all live on unceded land, call it home, is there something else we should do? Beloved, the beast is everywhere, you cannot through effort extract yourself from its clutches, act and adapt accordingly.
Moonlight on snow at two a.m., we are not bereft. We are not saying no, we are remembering alternatives.
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