Morning stillness in which a single breath is lifetimes. Apples rotting underfoot, hay flakes light in my crooked arms. When the shepherd calls, you have no choice but to hear, and in this is your sure release, if you will only see how it generalizes unto everything, including your response to him.
At the transfer station I tell the guys to stay put, I've got it, and then unload happily, as if I have somehow quietened all the men who used to yell at me in the outfield - where I was always happily stunned by profluent dandelions and how each blade of grass was different than the next if you looked at them closely, not caring who won or lost - to "show some hustle."
There are no signals and no mutations.
Mist muting the maple trees in the orange yellow glory, but not muting my desire to perceive - and to name what is perceived - glory.
Sleeping habits. Trying to understand the old mystics, honoring them accordingly, and becoming quietly happy, as if communion were merely intention to love, by which Love comes forth in our living.
Fenelon's reasonable point that one should not presume their "inner crucifixion" is complete, to which I can only add, nor even begun exactly.
Playing guitar on the front porch at 10 p.m., moths fluttering around a single dim bulb overhead, my fingers easing into old patterns, ferrying me over the many interior Jordans.
She clutches the comforter with both hands, raising her hips coming, choking back come-cries, and I come a moment later, rocked by her thighs, the salty folds of her quivering against my tongue.
Tolkien's sense of landscape.
Blue jays rising in noisy lines arrowing off the neighbor's umber lawn. Late September robins, a single chickadee fluttering panicked near the attic eaves, three stories up, embedded like all of us in space.
Fifteen months it took me to finish the ACIM lessons, a fructive blur that stands behind me like a long-closed restaurant from childhood.
Rising off my knees, her "hey," pulling me by the hand to where she lies on messed blankets to kiss - daintily, almost chastely - its still-swollen tip, and we laugh about it, coming unexpectedly while giving her head, our exchange muted in this form delight chose for us at this late stage of empire and meaning, patriarchal dissembling, predictive cephalopods deepening our prayer.
Later, going out back with Jeremiah to cut down certain saplings, clearing space for the greater cuttings of early October. Remembering how once I longed for a team of oxen and the knowledge of how to work them.
Nothing real can be threatened, nothing unreal exists: this is actually true!
Not wanting to go either forward or back, the beauty of the post-equinox stillness, you so far away and not far at all, and everything I love now without understanding at last.