The book finally arrives in the mail – a tangible connection to a conversation that begins as advice and ends with fingers folding as proxy into monosyllabic “oh.”
A certain greed in regards to my hands wrapped around a new book. The first page – the first impressions – the first sentence; there is only one first time. The words could be totally incoherent, yet there is that moment after the crack of the spine when the entire universe lies between my two thumbs. Yes, also this “oh.”
The author swims in choppy strokes as he speaks of lovers and love. But did he mean Love?
Sliced bell peppers, homemade hummus, and strawberries for dessert. Only mason jars are left to drink from now but they are my favorite, so I tend them.
Daylight's escape deferred a little longer. Did you see that too? Even without the sun's touch, a prudent charm. I was desperate at one time, but now I am aware of the slow bloom, opening into that which rises. Light tracked. Love manifest.
The dog and the opossum both play dead so we breach the numbing rain to pull her back into the house. All night, an opossum in the window well. Wanting something else. Not satisfied with its limits. Can love fill itself?
Lately, the narrow truth flows into the greater. I set the glass of wine on the book but then worry, and move it to the wooden dresser. Dampened wood is a comfort, maybe like the red scar and the umber blur coming together on the surface.
Aurobindo visits and I am cordial. We share light under the pretense that maybe finally I have nothing to say. Instead, water to wine and other miracles. Post cards from nearly there: I miss you.