It rains. Clouds cover the moon, leaving just enough light to stumble happily into the old pasture. Who is not here is somewhere else. But it's enough.
And the pine trees do nothing yet I love them. I stop by the ones I planted twenty-five years ago and wish they could talk. A skunk hefts its tail and flares in the bare light. In the distance, howls.
One rises from little or no sleep and can't untangle desire's many objectives. One word in the right ear can change a life. In the garden, ridden now with weeds, a few Begonias remain, the color of moonlight, the color of a mouse's ear. In those days whiskey made many things possible, while rendering others beyond even dreams.
Are you reading this still? My knees are muddy from all the praying I do in the forest. Pileated woodpeckers that swoop away, deer that watch nervously from a hundred yards off. It's for you, which is not enough, nor all I have to give, which is why you left so gracefully.
Some trails are easy to follow, others not so much. We glorify what appears hard or mysterious or distant, yet it's merely a reflection of our will to obscure what is Love. Who knows this waits patiently on my song. I squander words in the rainy dark, nearly out of time.