Taking a Wyeth Walk

Geese overhead and nesting in the lowlands. Who returns. Who remains. A knowing suggests the difference between the curling edges of the universe and its unraveling dwelling place within. Coil as you must, lovely – it's ever and always okay.

In the dream, I escorted a drunken monk through the weeping stone walls and alleys of some ancient town. I held back the cowl when he vomited; together we moved on.

Bright chirping now escorts dreams and dreamers into dawn. Daffodils not-yet-yellow and tender tulips reaching towards uncommitted blue. Almost a foot of snowfall in the forecast for tonight; expectations nurture an elegant despair.

Krisnamurti returns. We are always taking a Wyeth walk, peeking in on sleeping dogs or stretching out through graying horizons. Can love be sliced into sacred and sinful? How far must the image fade before one understands their own entangled ideas?

We sat in the car and listened to the rain turn to snow. To be abandoned to this moment is to sense the kind of beauty that is love. Between the gentle clinks on glass, we breathed. I came upon love without seeking it all those years ago, and it fell into me, outside of time – outside of commitment and responsibility and duty and slavery. It was this love that was of one and of many.

I'm tired of the observer and the observed. Give me the austerity of a lost yesterday and forgotten tomorrow. Do you love me? Then give me now.