An Open Lingering


After winter the thought of missing a single day of sun is heretical. The drive to smother light onto my face, to drink it, to let it all in, is a burning circle seared onto my chest. January's scars are still pink and raised. How the barrel of gun-metal months follows one around like a wolfy shadow!

When tending the land, it is no longer a surprise to find porcelain frogs underneath the vines. In this ritual my mind wanders to wildflowers and centuries of secrets.

Suburban fireworks terrorize the dog in lead up to Independence Day. I can't make them stop and I can't make her feel safe enough. Is it still warmongering if the root is ignorance? So, zazen and ginger tea. I don't have a river but I have creek. I don't have trout but I have bathing birds. I don't have a vegetable garden because I don't have sun. But I do have this. (stolen, but possessed.)

Marder, well into the night. He dissected a “spiritual intermezzo” and hooked into an open lingering. I take notes and eat dark chocolate M&M's and wonder what kind of economy welcomes such discussions. Which others will recognize the profound in desacralizing?

My desert loses its center. So, enter here – the no-space between the living.

I think / it thinks / the anonymous function of never really being apart.