Friday, May 17, 2013
It rains hard and I step outside to see. Rivulets stream across the patio, blue jays watch from the side yard honeysuckle. Welcome, sister. One can play any song as if sad, even happy birthday. A turtle can move quite quickly if it wants, and if water is near. The heron rises on the pond's far side. A flurry of emails - a flurry of kisses against tradition - and what have you got? Something resembling Emily Dickinson's lovely obituary, penned by Sue, a sort of love letter. One finds moose tracks pointing North and follows a while, thinking about nothing in particular. You read Bohm as well ("and not just nominally"), which helps. One dreams of a pottery shop in which many bowls and mugs can be found, all covered in dust. Desire is not blue but green, or so one thinks, facing the pond as the sun rises. Ducks often circle before landing, but the heron leaves, sort of like intuition while making love to a strange woman. You held my hand at an inopportune moment and I wondered who might see. And yet I liked it and held back and now what. We are all in motion amid so much movement. Redwinged black birds, chickadees, crows. Dandelions fold against the downpour, as if intelligent, as if possessed of preference. Well, maybe. I turn back, as always, lit from within.