The Collective Sip

Manure infiltrates sweet morning air; now it's spring. Day breaks into shards of sunlight from the murky deep. Coffee, Kora and I make the flower rounds to see who or what needs tending. The azalea bushes hum and nod with with the weight of bumblebees. How sweet the collective sip.

The neighbor offers her wayward ferns. I delight at the chance to add them to my evolving jungle. Is there a word like “menagerie” but for plants? I dig up a dozen ostrich ferns, hop the split rail fence, and sing my way to the arching backbone of the yard. Zero distance between this and joy.

Within a few hours, sunlight gives way unto West Michigan's default metal sky. It rolls over like the dull heaviness of a mausoleum door. The ferns and flowers will be glad of the showers.

What is not translatable begins to take shape. Stepping stones nestle into the stratum as nature fills the cracks. Getting anywhere is meaningless, yet giving light unto the path is everything. The way beyond awaits. Which altar, Beloved? Which choice-less decision?

Lex strums the ukulele as rain softly arrives. Together, the two streams pay homage to the flow of spring. The basement floods again this year, but this time its because of a leaking water heater. We rotate the rags and towels on our hands and knees. Kyle says, “ Isn't it funny that water is always the thing with this house?” Indeed.

Let us give up the misery. We go together, glad-hearted, do we not? We rest in waking. That's all I'm saying. I'm tired.

Alone at night, I sit in the dark with a drink in the room of many windows. I stare out into the rain feeling full. Alive. Happy. Enjoined. Limitless.