Early - before I wake - she wakes me and we kiss quietly. Our bodies make a bright tent against the old darkness. Red-winged black birds sing at the window, responding to instinct outside of thought. One remembers Jesus at odd moments, and is joined to time accordingly.
That wily mountain beckons, doesn't it? How I long to see you beside a river! As touch is to her, so the image is to him. We cultivate desire and then wonder why joy remains so distant.
He is not trying to mislead anyone but simply gain an old - a nearly forgotten - clarity. Some of us sing as we shed our clothes, slip into the lake, and swim happily in circles of moonlight. The movement is so slow - glacially slow - but now and again we make contact with it. Stillness is holy and yet.
And yes? It is the only syllable that matters, isn't it? One glides from the question out over a rangeless desert and then ends in a kiss that softens the blinds of forever. Is it a secret that he writes for her?
We find our way in accumulating sentences. Certain loves light the way. Gratitude abounds. As one day soon I will meet you on the familiar trail and offer you a hand and a walking stick, and liberate you from socks and shoes.