Wedded to Yet

Frosted tulips undismayed. Wholehearted dawn proceeds untouched by the chill of a late and getting later freeze.

Tea in hand, nested in a grotto of loose blankets, I spend a lifetime in his sentences. Devoted and undone, who is it that is wedded to yet?

I've realized to my cost and much too late that maybe to be worshiped is not what a goddess wants. Or better said, perhaps it is a witch at the helm and not a goddess at all.

I face the sea and willingly see my death in it. Maybe it is like that.

More and more the awareness of geese and ducks flying in pairs. What monasticism actually exists in nature?

She was born on this date, the same day as her grandfather and also, the same date her great grandmother died. Birth and death used to flank both ends of life like a curated book shelf. Now neither reaches the cool, still waters even twenty turtles deep. We celebrate and mourn and yet, another ecosystem thrives untouched. Still, I put violets from the yard on her cake in hopes that she might be taste and know.

The voices of trees. A forgetfulness of where you are headed. Red-winged blackbirds the whole way.

Let's just cross our paths and see what happens, beloved. The last mystery is God's face in the mirror.