Monday, May 6, 2013

Where I Settle Most

At one point - after saying goodbye - I stared dizzily up between the branches of the Dogwood tree and could not say - literally - whether the stars were distant enormities or small brilliances shimmering at the tip of each unfolding leaf.

And saw for a moment that the whole sky was your shoulder.

Yet there is loveliness in not talking.

As after, hearing the soft pop of nightcrawlers emerging, and the low whisper of the distant river, and the owl - insistent, sonorous - the familiar boundaries begin to melt, to dissolve.

Dissolution of what is not real is the objective.

And: objectives impede the given.

And the given . . .

Well, later I dreamed, and in the dream we were young in an old - in an ancient - space and I made the case there for us, and you listened.

Is there anything you cannot forgive?

What loveliness cannot  - is there a loveliness that cannot - be reduced to a photograph?

In the morning, one wakens slowly, and is surprised by who is not there and - at another, at a deeper level - Who is.

Who and what we name matters.

As in, ophthalmos.

Or better, calypso.

One cannot contain the fullest breadth of what a bluet is, or how it is, or why even.

Mother's anger.

The butterfly liberator!

The woman who says, it's okay, I'm here, I'm coming too, where the others say: no, I can't, but I'll be here - maybe - if and when you make it back.

Thus a sigh, thus a cry, and thus a hungry kiss!

Between words, Love, and in your hands - where I settle most - rest.

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