Under the acacia tree the earth rests as it has been for thousands of years. Expanse whispers the impossibility of comprehending forever. Papery grasses rustle proving what one cannot see; the capture eliminates its existence. There are words like that – words that cannot be used ahead of their intended meanings. And that confuses my calling.
Tolerance for the unimaginable now has its place in the daily mundane. To interlace the strands is a way of building rest. It's just that sometimes the connected whole resembles a hammock, and at other times, it looks like that thick rope hanging from the top of the gym ceiling in 5th grade. So here we are with perception again. Rather, here I am with perception again.
I stoop down to see how things are growing, yet there are eddies of stars carrying another kind of light. The runnel reflects a pause.
a rill of sighs
another catechism on rest
A squirrel dictates from the broken wagon wheel up against the oak and the blue jay fledglings have mistaken the windows for pathway five times already this hour. I sit alone but not unhappy as the fern unfurls its reach without my help.
The words matter, and of course, they don't mean a thing! Commandments and contracts. Permission and pleas. I kick the wordy can a little further down the road, whistling the tune stuck in my head.