Hunger created by words. Can I translate without metaphor? So many rivers and churches and cabins and moons! I am honestly afraid I cannot say this without saying that anymore.
Butternut needles on the rotting deck and dying begonias adding a deepening red. Colors seethe before they leave and in the middle of it all, one never wonders if it's worth it.
Instead, an ineffable joy bleeds into expanse. Soon enough, charcoal trees will poke at a relentless sky, and all that was livid will cool into dross. Winter will descend with its irrefutable claims, listening to the beggars with his stone face.
But not now.
Now we have what is lavish.
And here, a cardinal at my front door! I watch him pick seeds from the scrolling dogwood leaves. He will leave if I move, so I stuff the desire to reach for the camera. In the quiet of watching, I am affected.
All turns bring me here. A conversation always flowing in a continuous leaving or entering translation. Do you have any idea what I really want to say here? Please tell me you do.
On the way home from town, the dazzling beauty of monarchs and maple leaves, floating on fire until the end. This kind of perfection is never achieved by doing or praying or asking; It only just is. Seen. Known. Processed and recorded by thought. These strands I untangle create a space for more, but what is undone and why?
That missing chord, which is nothing at all, unwinding to find the endless end of just being here. I don't know what any of that means. But are you with me?