Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Unsatisfying Landscapes

Who crosses the lake is received by the lake. And held by it. Mountain laurel blossoms follow. We sit in shadows and don't talk. Loons pass, nervous and dark.

And later wait as the storm passes - picking up and laying down fields - the wind tearing the leaves. Coffee at dinner means bad dreams later. You come to me shirtless and my breath does that thing it does. You hold me too, in loveliness and grace, and I rest a little. It makes me happy.

And who amongst us will take that happiness lightly? Over and over I encounter that smallness of spirit that longs to bring me down, that insists on pain, on separation from God. The soft silt of the bottom holds me. I dream the folds of you, of kneeling before them. You know.

And yet we live with the distance we made long ago. One fiddles with the radio and ends up in quiet, gazing at unsatisfying landscapes. It's easy to talk about love and the sacred, harder to feel it consistently. We learn, or we try to. My hand slips toward you - over the miles - and reaches in the immense darkness for yours.

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