The Purple Chalice

In bed, a swath of sun warms my ankles with sacred geometry. To stare out the window is to calculate expectations framed in a square. There's always a code, my love. Or, my love is always a code.

The crocus' purple chalice holds springtime's promises. How his saffron keeps me! When the wild seed blows there is nothing to do but wonder. Perception tells me I am neither broken nor whole. But east is still east; my face yet turns this way every morning so that I may track what rises and falls in the course of existence.

A glimmering thread connects the Azalea leaves in dawn's rush to become Sunday. When Africa was once your home, all proliferation becomes migration. At least, that's what every blessing feels like when I am no longer wiping her red dust from my sandals.

This time of year, everyone leaves. No machines hum in the upkeep of appearances. No cars on the streets. Instead, a flock of turkeys tip toe through suburbia's nap. Deer tracks under the pine in the backyard. Daffodil buds relenting to slanted persuasion.

Spring / I love you / his must-be-present-to-win / theology

The seasons, rotation of the earth, and the stars all say the same thing: the hunger of the universe cannot be satisfied in our understanding. The system opens beyond the system. Have you felt the kiss of a thousand rain drops rolling off the low branches? Are we the ripple or the other? The rain or the branch? Metaphysics aside, we mostly think that we are the water which can only see through watery eyes.

The matriarch will kill you to defend her family. She knows what is right. Yet she is a female, prone to the nuances of undetectable change. At times, what she knows will not translate. Do you trust her?

April rains – another form of gray with immediate results. Rest. Repair. And remove what cannot stay. So goes the work before the fullness of June.