A needed rain withheld.
August birdsong opens a bit, now arranging a fullness in decline.
One sits under the humidity yet cannot divine a single drop of water.
The dry storm growls east sending the release onward.
Another sonorous signal of movement complying with destiny.
To love unconditionally may seem like a choice but as the cardinal in the elder pine and I discussed, Love simply is.
This and other quicksilver threads braided down the middle of my back.
Last December I remember water turning to stone, yet the evergreens and holly and chickadees remained vibrant to dismantle the myth of death.
Yet, this one will wither; my choice-less season in the accompaniment key of Chopin.
So today – short sentences of latent potential in the here and now.
What arrives now is truly a mystery, for more than a muse means more than everything combined.
The field of my thoughts runs dry as the sky-fallen sea withholds.
I shall stagger to river's edge to kiss its cold mouth in hopes of dousing this dusty lament!
Then when will I be empty?
A moment in the waterless moonlight suggests the kind of never that eclipses both hope and despair.
They say that in the death of Pan, Christ is born.
I say that in the birth of Christ, Pan collects Selene for the last time and disappears into the soft white distance that can never be claimed.
Lunar night, dawning bright; I cannot undo the wish I wished last night.
Make for me this sweet ending and you'll know me on my knees.