Thursday, May 23, 2013

Only Kindness, Only Beauty

One thinks of her: and wonders. At three a.m., three nights running, she is there, patient but insistent: this is. You try to make it about the body - to desecrate the holy with fantasy - but it only works a little and not for long. Eventually there is only kindness, only beauty. You want it all - still - and know you do. When we wait we bear witness. The trail crosses a desert and winds through a forest and ascends a mountain and keeps going. Just because Jesus says the crucifixion was an illusion doesn't mean we aren't going to find the ruins of a cross somewhere. The river sings a little in darkness and he lends his own cracked voice. A bushel and a peck, a hug around the neck. Yet sadness is an illusion too. Can we cry ourselves awake? One thinks of all that went unsaid and walks a long time trying to find a way to say it still. Is it like finding the right radio station while driving at night, Aroostook County Maine, late May? You see the moon, you see the gap - the dark - that any light presents. Deer step slowly through the shallows, elegant and alive. I sit a long time beneath pine trees, listening to the wind. What goes unsaid remains, patient but insistent. A moon song, a God song, a love song. I go home and write it: again.

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