The August canopy allows shadows to sway in that hue resistant to naming.
In the low breeze off the Great Lake, a grief speaks in wind chimes causing a certain regard that is hard to ignore.
And the remains of letters burned on the beach under lilting ladles and the roving bears of my heart.
The gills in the privacy fence between us allow golden-green beams to pass.
I am engrossed in this light and make all things it leans against to be real.
Is this how Love creates it's own necessities?
Satiation leads to sluggish contentment, a hazy drift in mid-summer's heavy lake.
Yet the starving opposite leaves one to flip the coin of happiness and sorrow.
Perhaps now it is time to welcome life as it presents – cheese and cream, or black marble coffee with crumbs.
I see now that it is the search or longing that destroys the peace never not offered.
Maybe the cold kiss as woodsmoke clings to autumn falling apart.
Maybe the tapping of letters from the writing chair snug in the corner as one writes in, past, and through the current of arrival.
And maybe none of it.
Accept what is.
Like clouds in the sky.
Here and not.