The Beautiful Unbearable

The things we cannot bear, we bear.

Everything green is now covered in a copper blanket of after.

What life is this that we are allowed to walk around saying this and that when all along we each carry the mountainous weight of being a wish?

Lately, beyond speaking. Words can fall short leading some to question their talent for certainty.

Do you know those partings that come without pain or promise? I don't either. Even grass and butterflies and certain birds leave a space to be filled with whatever is nearby. That is where the perceptions settle; that is where the image reveals itself to be a moment of a moment only.

Turkeys in the field, feather-stepping the loam. Fog settles and now I. How sincerely the future looks back, begging me to turn around! Where is the firebrand? The scorching wood resisting the suicide of abatement?

As the canopy thins, more and more light enters the house. Daily, a new slant against the pew. Tell me, after all of this reading, how does one have a true voice? This and others things I would bring to a cohort of teacups and winks.

Some day, a reparation for the way in which the beautiful unbearable has opened my heart. At least this act of humanity remains.