One begins to sense in their living an abdication of moral responsibility, as if it were really were about survival only. Something other than forsythia erupts in the center of the straggling front yard forsythia, as if mocking one's inclination to respond to all things. What if Creation is itself broken? What if our language is even more opaque that we know?
We walked in a large half circle - many miles - around old tobacco fields, county fairground buildings bright in the distance. What is it about the sky that makes us think we do not have to die? Banjos originate in Africa, which as Jasper says, merely testifies to the basic insight that we always end up in Africa. Missionaries, missionary positions, the many uses to which kneeling can be put. Lord forgive me my regrets.
Ellipsis. Eclipses. What is hidden and how hiding is itself a revelation.
Ferns begin unfurling in the garden adjoining the driveway, intimations of a green profluence for the later ecstasies of summer. Have you tried Buckeye Purple?
Wading deep enough into the river to be "in the river" but not deep enough that my balls shrivel. Stars wheel through the sky a little before midnight, Luna owning the rusty tinge of menses. How tired one gets after a single glass of wine these days. How grateful I am in her glances.
For two days straight waking up after Chrisoula, making the bed despite my back, and leaning on the window after drawing open the heavy curtains. "How shall we improve the prayer" is the very reason we have to ask "how shall we improve the prayer."