Thursday, May 9, 2013

Itself Teaching

I woke to rain, a soft thrumming on the roof, and when it stopped, went with the dog outside. Already one or two stars were visible between clouds. And you could hear rain drops still falling, from one tree limb to another, from one leaf to the ground.

When I am sad, I am most attentive. What is beyond this? Our capacity to question is a gift, is itself teaching.

I have never not written, never not thought in terms of "how does this fit into writing?" We walked to the brook and back, stopping only once and not to pray. In the distance, one or two cars passed, fast and grumbly.

Metaphors enable discourse, but also resistance. What is needs no explanation. Teaching is what then?

Can I work the word catkin in somehow? Many miles fell under our legs yesterday, the only true happiness. Who is with us earns our love and that is forgiveness.

The dog mutters falling to sleep. As always I turn to words not to make sense of things - not anymore - but simply to pass the time. My fingers curl naturally into holding a handgun, maybe a hoe.

Thus, this. Again.

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