Of The Tilt

Easter morning tells me the truth through a dappled shroud. The greatest theism now is the Azalea off the east corner of the back porch, blooming overnight.

Today will be the only day suburbia whereby the machines shall rest. How did I get to the place that looks like so many other places? But the mourning doves coo over rising color and the daffodils last longer than I expected. A nadir of last night's rain hangs suspended from the iron rim of the rounded patio table; how does one write the proverbs that are made up of blood and bones and hearts and skin?

In my being, the pines planted things. I hear their glittery whispers move through the woods and it always makes me feel colder.

Sometimes I picture the blade cutting under my chin, down my midline, until I've run out of room to sever the tension. Sure, I'd bleed out; but isn't that what humans do?

War and rumors of war. But even my deepest rejection of it feels like a violent affront. We have the power to pass light from hand to hand – a giving generosity which turns to her neighbor, open palmed, and tilts illumination into fertile valleys.

tilted into me –

tiny buds
unroll the missive

pass it on

And there is one last thing, which is really the first thing and the only thing:

Like the rainstorm that passes through on a drowsy Sunday morning or the tiny blue flowers that skip out from the rocks around my garden, I cannot say goodbye or hello to who comes and goes because of the tilt. Instead, I can only be here as both a beggar and bearer of light.