Change is a form of travel. Afternoon passes watching swallows loop above the garden, stymied by the netting we put up to protect the kale. I am here but only for a while: this is our condition, which we are not allowed to refuse.
Sculpting a fallen limb of the apple tree, rewarded days later with a robin perched on it singing. White flowers on the raspberry bushes. Clouds pass like sheep following a shepherd home.
How tired I am (and growing tireder by the moment). Hell hath no fury, only confusion, and no remembrance of any origin (which is the secret to true suffering). Life is an invitation to recognize an underlying relationship, which I say is with God, but you know.
A meditation practice based on giving attention to whatever is given. Late at night, nearly finished with the anguish of telling secrets to ghosts. And the river flows easily between its banks, much the way we ourselves bring forth the container in which we know ourselves.
Thanks but no thanks, Plato. The garden at a late stage of the marriage defining us in a way that allows us to move forward together into old age. Sleeping on the floor, a phase of living with which one is never precisely finished.
Likeness dissolves leaving what. To consume, commune, cooperate. So this is what I am not, what then am I?
Unable to end the forbidden narrative, one opts instead to begin a new one, discovering they are only alive "once upon a time." And did you, in the end, drag your father kicking and screaming out of the orchard?