Slowed Way Down

A bossy wind bringing November. Obstinate garden hoses fighting to be coiled and the shed emptied and filled with the changing seasons. A longing to make love outside, any season, burns with the last of the bonfires. More fodder to compost. More garden space to mull.

I remember kissing Rawlin, under the raft, undulating in the lake. My teenage legs wrapped around his waist as we both held on to the underside of the raft to keep our heads above water.

Bewitched, bothered and bewildered....

The right flame at the wrong time? What is natural has been called crude emotion but I will not allow that voice to have a say, for what is of God will not be betrayed.

Bourbon cream, Ella Fitzgerald, and these lines. Tell me, what's a girl like me to do? Drink another. Sing a few tunes. Write love notes that go no further.

The infinite appears in the spaces – in the tempo slowed way down. What arises from absolute stillness cannot be expressed.

Finding God in bed to lose one's self in bed.