I am lost again. At the beginning again? Well, emptying out again.
Walking through heavy grass and patches of ash-colored snow to tell the horses I will no longer use them as metaphors, they say what they always say, where's the hay, pal. Starlight before midnight, the sky is our shared heart, it is no longer possible to be unclear about this. Thank you for reminding me what matters.
A robin at rest on a maple limb tangled with bittersweet, a bluebird at rest on a rotting fence post at least two possibly three generations old. In a dream the bluets say I have refused them, I beg forgiveness, they say quietly - little kings, little queens - you know what to do. How tempting it is to enter the river, allow it to carry me where it will, to end where it ends me, without grief or clinging. Trying to make it clear to certain women that nothing can be lost, nothing losable exists, all because I am the one still confused.
Talking all day about the miracle of joy and peace, dancing all night in our moonlit bodies, making coffee at dawn to share with those who like us are out of time. Let us create the new world together, one that is fitting for our troubled sons and daughters. Say yes, always say yes, even if it means saying no.
After the prayer dims I go outside with cold tea to see if God remembers me. Five, ten minutes later the door opens and Chrisoula steps outside. It's what, two a.m.? We don't say much. We are trying to find each other in a dark place, darker than we knew existed but in which oddly even seeking is a comfort. It's like the cosmos doesn't abide separation. Undo your illusions! A cold wind blows down Main Street, our shoulders touch, and the old fire - the familiar fire, the home fire - rekindles. For a little while longer my travels and wandering do not mean I am alien.
For all this and more - much of which must pass without reference, there are no words and there is not time - not inquiry any longer but thanks.
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