Hemlocks sway in light breezes. Sometimes it feels like the sky is close enough to kiss, close enough to whisper secrets to and know they'll be kept. I was a child once, and will be again.
Ravens pass, their guttural cries mocking our befuddlement, our leaden stature. The pond skiffles, fragmenting sunlight, and those who have headaches no longer have headaches. Study the sleep of dogs, study the waking of cats.
Morning passes. At the last second one finds it in them to witness unto the grace that is never not in abundance. She does not notice me noticing her, and does not care that she does not notice.
One adopts an attitude they secretly feel is becoming of a psalmist and instantly all the words dry up. The broken-hearted many, the open-hearted few. Cold drafts seep into the hay loft and the Man Without Shoes shivers while he writes which is, for him, a familiar way of writing.
Who will say they are free of all filters? The hemlocks appear darker than usual with the sun behind them. Re-reading Joyce's letters, remembering sharing them with Dan, all those years ago in Vermont.
Drunk and high on the shore of Lake Champlain, singing Hank Williams songs, scared I won't find the next chord, and nearly always finding it. My grandmother's tea cup filled with moonlight on the back stairs, me sitting beside it, quiet and still, filling with grace. After sunrise, another cup of coffee.
What you need is an understanding of the fundamental inability to grasp anything. The image dies on the only altar imaginable.