One writes a last letter and seals it near the window. Cardinals arrive at the feeder. Chickadees perch on the clothesline.
The world offers itself to us: the only gift that matters: and all that remains is our response. Clouds gather and slip beyond where the eyes can reach. Perhaps a table near the ocean, or a glass of white wine as the sun sets, but always touching your hand, always my fingers brushing lightly your palm.
Or perhaps a mountain around which the river flows, deep blue in summer, black in winter and riddled with ice. We find the summit and breathe deeply, grateful for respite, grateful to rest. Who feels a need to go on, goes on with our blessing.
Later I will drive into Vermont. The old dog waits for me now on Mount Ascutney, patient and kind, nosing the familiar underbrush. Absent sleep, another kind of seeing emerges: lit by God, lifted by Love.
Love goes on as well, but lust always stops for a souvenir. The circle grows tighter and I place my finger on it just so. Be kind, be generous: but know there is no love that excludes you, nor ever will be.
Or maybe I'll sleep: on a lawn chair in the side yard, or out in the forest where the leaves are soft and thick. In a dream you bent over me, willing and gentle. We kiss what we want - hold it deep inside our mouths - and let the salt taste of the sea guide us home.
Desire is first: and fastens the body: say yes. The journey comes after - and lasts: yes.