With the slightest turn of the prism, the teacher still has something to give. Because the black bear processes life as a bear, it is a teacher – and so the squirrel and the red-winged blackbird and the mosquito. Neighbors have cut down a tree and now dawn is different. Sunlight's arrow pierces a hermetical darkness, so I am cracked. So I am grateful. So winter finally fades.
Folded and breathing; can I finally be still? What is left when the archives are silenced and intuitions are stretched as far as east is from west? Pines sway as a puppet master might, creating flickers of light and shadow along a damp path. Walking with seriousness into the east, the sunrise seemed inexhaustible as it untangled and unraveled every intention. Cardinal chirps lifted my chin with their musical fingers.
a few steps
bring me here –
after one thought
I love the ease of rain shushing on an early Sunday morning.
Candles – writing – tea.
When one forms words in way that feels like art, one can realize herself free and full of spacious impulses. Tilted just right, these little dashing hiccups, these letters sewn with intention, resonate to catch the universe. Also in this way, the teacher makes no promises. They just write us together on the unyielding path; there is no otherwise.
A rabbit kit the size of my palm takes measured hops beneath the rain-stained pine. Its ears barely pop higher than the wild violets. My attention joins the current in Sunday's somnolent stream. Let's take a nap together near the open window and dream along side the falling rain.