The buttercups extend yellow, the first sentence.
The white petals of the daisy fold delicately towards me.
All morning the offer to love and be loved goes out, and I write and listen and attend to it, and what is one unfolds accordingly.
The cardinal observes the rose bush.
And the tall grass by the back fence observes the cardinal.
Who wants love is already love and lives bereft in the well of memory.
And the moon falls, and starlight flows, and the air sweetens with honeysuckle and wild roses, and all of it is a dream in which one lingers.
The world resolves into a.m. coffee, declarations of intent, and the body's need to be fed and held and lifted in a welter of soft kisses.
The offer goes out eternally and who makes it waits while the separated ones settle for logistics.
In the mason jar on the table, buttercups and daisies perch on green stems, and are silent and still, and drink the pure light.
And light the way, as fireflies do, and moonlight, and the moose who grazes contentedly in the shallows while the sun rises.
We get up early when it is still dark and in darkness acknowledge one another in the way that was given to us.
We for whom love remains sacred.
We for whom touch is a prayer.
Don't ask how to love: find out how to love and then teach it.
One imagines a certain light coming off the lake at dawn.
And a certain light - pale, tremulous, extensive, lovely - comes off the lake at dawn.
One accepts gratefully what is given: and need not ask again.
For desire merges with responsibility.
And with yes: and you.