Yes, of sky and pine-filtered rays. Of turtles and Orioles and lacy tea cup roses. Yes of tangled vines and toads and fireflies all bearing the weight of the bridge that had to be built. But at the lake it is clear that none speaks for my lack in the way water does. Everything else is other.
After midnight, I grabbed her hand outside of the grocery store. Binti yangu, you will never see a moon like this again. To which she replied, “the same is true of every moon if you think about it.” Wisdom leaks all over the place. Yet lately I am in no mood for wisdom. Or thinking. I just want to sit under moonlight, letting it grab my throat in the summer night's hush.
Sometimes there is no thought involved. I just fall in love according to the vibration frequency of Love incarnate. When I am locked in the icy tomb of February, I long for the marigold light that dances through June foliage. Yet, when I am in the swelter of July's suffocating blanket, I do not pine for the sharp crystal relief of winter. It's not about wanting what is not here. It's about wanting who I am.
So it is that I follow myself on a trail towards an October lake, fed by the river that must arrive. The question is, how still will the water get before it freezes?