Cars pass and I lift my hand, not caring who it is who is passing. Who is not my brother and sister? And: this love cannot exclude a soul. The far field, the trail in the forest. The quartz rock glistening with rain which as a child I carried five miles from the river to my bedroom. When I was young we carried guns picking blueberries because you didn't know if you would see a bear. Did some of us just like guns? The host on my tongue never wasn't mass-produced at a factory in Worcester - why else did yearning decouple from a particular church? There is later and later yet but not always the one who notices. The force that through the green fuse drives the flower, indeed. Walking up Flat Iron Road, I pause where it crests the wetlands and watch beavers float quietly between early winter cattail. There is yet more pain, there is yet more suffering, and yet. When my heart is still - when it overflows with love for her - the world is suffused with rain: this is how I learn how little I have learned. What a little boat we are! Such a mighty flood my love we are up against.