Monday, July 1, 2013

Never Static Nor Capable of Containment

When we consent to sorrow, the road before us lengthens. Grace, like dawn, is faint at first but brightens. And who leads us only seems to go before.

Strawberry season empties itself into white ceramic bowls. Gifts are never static nor capable of containment. We eat quietly, grateful for the company of those who prepare a way out, and only later include them in prayer.

Yet the sky clears and the rain passes. Cardinals pause on the back fence, then flutter out to the feeder. Who hefts a camera must soon lower it, understanding at last the futility of the image.

The voice is intimate: and tender. Who reads to us blesses our sleep, or would if we asked. What we see is only real because we believe it is: this is the first law, and the only one we need to learn.

Meanwhile, the interior valley darkens. Word of you comes and we bless the envelope, confused as always about the difference between purpose and meaning. Folds and refolds: and no center from which to observe it.

The body aches and reassembles into something less contingent. Effort remains bound to her bony zero. It's like writing, in a way, except it's not.

One studies the map for hours - goes away and comes back - , wondering what will work and what will not going forward. The sun rises and falls, rises and falls, and we go on the way we do: waiting, expectant.

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