Friday, August 19, 2011

The Mortal Sadness I Feel

What might be a chicken hawk - what's maybe a couple of miles away - is a black shape against the late morning cumulus. You leave angry despite my efforts to be "spiritually sound." The other way - the infinite way - is thataway. Can we buy tickets? Growing up was church hall basements, spaghetti suppers with vanilla ice cream and afterwards a raffle with prizes nobody wanted.

There is a musty smell in the instruction manual (the way moths flew out of his wallet). It's funny how we say things like, "I can't believe he died," as if there were such a thing as special dispensation. Yet there are raspberries coming into season, just as the strawberries fall back into the dust. The black bear at midnight reminds me of God - how else can I explain the mortal sadness I feel as it leaves, not looking back? It's true that rivers pose a challenge but it's nothing Heraclitus didn't solve.

One does chores in place of enlightenment. We harbored vanity, hence the busted mirrors everywhere. There's a turtle in the sky, looking down on us with love. Our idea of embraces shows the way we're lost. Yellow moon, tattered parchment.

I set the chainsaw down reluctantly, accepting at last the gangly beauty of the front yard pines. Certain words cannot go before another in a poem without throwing the whole in disarray. The unfolding begins here, the rippling and tearing. Missing you feels like letting you down, who pointed me in the direction of grace. In flight then is our sure release.

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