Thursday, June 20, 2013

Eyes on the Far Green Shore

All night the lake calls to me: in dreams, waking, walking the dog: like a lover whose body I have never seen.

Before dawn I meet it: obedient: outside language: and independent of logistics.

For who loves answers, and who answers gives, and who gives is blessed, a blessing outside both time and the body.

For the world has not yet seen love: but I have: so sweetly - so briefly - at home in you.

The birch trees rise above the laurel, and the laurel shed their mallow blooms, and bunches of blue flag creep like sentinels out into the shallows.

All this I offer to you.

The trout leap and buckle, silver in the mist, hungry and destructive, and slap the water as they fall back, and the water ripples and the sound echoes: goes away and comes back: and I give it to you: you.

The heron rises unconcerned, pulling with it the early rays of the sun, and that too is offered.

That too is given.

Almost soundless - as if slipping inside what is timeless and welcome - I am borne forward, out into the center.

My own motion carries me: and what calls to me carries me: and I follow.

For who follows loves, and who loves, gives, and only giving is holy.

Only giving - according to desire - is sacred, and only that will serve.

Where the water deepens and grows still and transparent, I can hear the mergansers half a mile distant.

One longs to behold a confirmation of their longing: the image perfected: the folds and soft slopes: the interior bells that drown misgivings and proclaim the one who is both beloved and trustworthy.

All morning I study the sky: pale mare's tails drifting slowly south: and think of what to write: and wait.

For summer is here and already the gathered heart assembles its autumnal garlands, the smell of wood smoke: and whiskey under stars, from a shared silver cup: and the kisses that follow, against the cold.

Soon you will travel again: east and a little north: like a letter from long ago: sprinkled with rose water and folded over on a sprig of pressed lavender.

There is a voice that speaks to me for you, and when it speaks, I put all other work aside to hear it, and attend to it, and only it.

And wait - drifting - eyes on the far green shore.

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