The Expectation of Fireflies

In the cooling twilight I put on the kettle. My family grows thin and quiet, so I drift to the back porch. Slow sips for now, but the tea leaves say soon a mouthful. One considers the essence of each perception, each mile of the distance that does not exist. What does Husserl say about entanglement? Maybe something about the dense forest as a shelter, but little light.

Then past midnight, an odd dream of what it would mean to be over and under you. M. asks: of the two, would you prefer to love or be loved? Yet a state of being has little otherwise; love is. Happiness or suffering – the same coin in the infinite treasure trove of that which has always been.

With the perception of distance, I watch. I've thought about the shape of watery rocks from afar and how they seem to change as one stands upon them. How myopic our intellect! Yet, what would it mean to remove the rocks? The water would grow quiet and swift.

Well anyway, I don't drink coffee anymore and medical issues persist. My body aches from rescuing ornamental plants from voracious vines that just . . . won't . . . quit.

It is not winter; it is time to work.


summer's work
and the expectation of fireflies -
knowing who I am