The Flutters of Interior Sparrows

The wind in pines, the cuckoo clock clicking – ticking – almost sticking, leaves skittering across the rot of winter . . . the day begs for the demolition of structure. And chocolate.

At the heart of everything that I cannot remember is an interior room described by poets and lovers. They perform the weathering that leads to a redemptive leakage – a certain scent that unlocks a memory long since dead. It has to be that I am weathered for the greater All because if that is not true, then the woman who is me exists for nothing more than narrow desire. The divine element within recognizes itself in the flutters of interior sparrows. Though I cannot say it, you must know what truth I mean. You must know your role in this economy of the ineffable, no?

Everything that leads to this indirect knowledge has been suspect from the beginning. Decades marking every detail have passed but I only seem to get mired in the myopic awareness of endless perceptions. I'm tired. Even though there has been beauty and destruction beyond description, there is some place within that grows so very weak and bored. When dreaming, one can feel the understanding without the duality of words or the systematic cataloguing thoughts. So what then should remain – to dream or wake? Lovers or abstention? Prayer or emptiness?

The material existence leaves me pale in February's white heart. When spring arrives I'm sure my first sunburn will be not be cursed or forgotten. The ways in which I remind myself to “be here” are infinite, and when I forget, there is always this breath and then the next one.

In the dark, I smelled the skunk and called the dog in early. She knows my intentions a moment before they're presented, though agreeing with them is another matter. She runs and puts us both at risk; I'm sure there is a symbolic meaning in that.

For a few hours, sun, and nothing can bind me. Yet by lunch, the clouds remember their place as my impenetrable oppressor. The trill of sunlight turns to a slog of housework, but at least there is apple crisp!

Listen, dearest: as the leaves curl and turn towards their fall, as snow covers the decay only to give way to rebirth, as April turns tulips into butterflies and summer kisses my throat with lakes, the imprint of what you open remains in me.

You remain.