Amish Acres

Violent storms all night give way to a compensatory drizzle at dawn. And yoga beneath the white noise of a million leaves catching and releasing rain. An awareness further. Deeper.

The poetry is gone. Those aching moments branching outward from the chest into the center of the throat have diffused into some sort of vacuous condemnation. To mourn words only highlights the foolishness of their play in the first place. At least, one tells you that in order to proselytize.

Even sentences are some sort of open window, catching a current heading somewhere else. My selfishness is tempered by the other, and I think that's why I was born a Libra. I want to go. I have to stay. October stars anchor what I mean to loose.

At the wedding we slow-danced to one of those timeless songs that always makes you feel like you can be tucked into each other's chest forever. The old Amish barn, a heavy harvest moon, the smell of hay and bundled corn stalks mingling with peachiest pie I've ever tasted . . . why not celebrate vows and commitment and two young hearts choosing to farm the land together? No one's asking, but is the marriage form something to believe in? White dress, best man speeches, tossing the bouquet; we keep it all on repeat. Partners hold fast to an institution that resists change and infiltration. Yet every moment in life is new, pressing against expectation and boundary.

Balance. Weighing the means. Libra bones rattling the cage in the name of Love.

October bears down on the core, and she honestly cannot tell you what is going to happen.