Blessed Bridges to Burn

Downpours in the dark.

Blackness after what would be dawn.

A voluntary poverty means we get to be unworldly in the world. Or so this particular story goes. Love has a death because After is. No more books. No more enlightened thinkers. I'm too tired to draw any more lines in shifting sands.

October has a certain vernacular, a spell cast in place of summer nights under gleaming stars. Today, a wave overtook me as I skittered with fallen leaves through the parking lot of the market. It was the hot breath of Spirit, or so a girl like me thought. It said what I knew but didn't know how to say or rather, was too afraid to remember. Let's see come November if I can know the same thing. If so, I have places to go and bridges to burn.

Another whole day of rain. Water pools in the streets, and downed leaves grow heavier by the hour. I watch the creek spill over with more flow than it can handle.

Our blessed estrangement is a reminder that I may always be of many streams – no one movement able to contain wherever it is I'm headed.

But I'm not alone.

Blessed is the one who who showed me that.

And blessed is the flow that now takes command.