My fingers follow the curves of a carved flower. Blooming away from the center, two concentric circles birth the ten church-window petals, pointing in every direction I want to go. Its mandalic pulse moves through my fingertips in a way that recalls an ancient priesthood, saturated with incense and prayer. A man with tame eyes and a wild beard sold it to me at the flea market this spring and it sits on a side table in the room of windows. When sun sets through it I am lost in adoration. Or maybe I am found. Either way, such hypnosis leads to an intercourse with the day.
So many rabbits this year! I see the small ones daily now, displaying a loss of the usual timidness one expects from those that hear it all. There is that heartbreak too when they are dead in the road; it makes sense in the number's game, but still.
Despite a restless day of walking from room to room in a search of sorts, peace falls with the lesser light. The back room cradles what is left of the West and I happily sit in the swaying lullaby. Newly, this is my favorite time of the day. The drowsy hushed-tones soften my bones.
I've reconsidered this arrival a thousand times. Beloved, what exactly is lost by embracing the spill?
An overflow of now seems uncontainable in rise. How nearly we almost see it all – the mountain peak breaking the mist, the reflection of sunrise in a waking lake, the paper moon hanging on to the last bit of indigo that cannot bear to say goodbye . . .
Well, it's one way of looking at it. And by “it” I mean the ever present blossoming of that which cannot die.