It Seams

Wind advisory.

What we know is not written in stone or sand; it is not written at all. We pray anyway and wonder if the light of Love is still dancing in the lake of the other.

Starlight in the backyard for only a little while longer and tulips lose their elegance, though not without grace.

The other night I sat out back to watch everything slip away, except bats and stars of course. After a few hours he brought out a bottle of wine and two glasses, though I opted for a beer or three. Chickens, gardens, and asking for help. We don't agree and I want to write that it matters.

It just doesn't.

Silky smoke lifts and curls after blowing out the candle and I swear that is the answer – here and not here – incense dissipating unto the nothing that is this. I hear him say “this, this.” Come say that to my face!

After rain the smell of damp pine and earth mixes for the kind of intoxication I want to share. It seems that every time I write it is because of love. It seams.

I drink too much caffeine now and I've fallen off the yoga wagon. Speaking of fallen ­– pine trees, petals, crests.

“Natural Woman” came on and I knew instantly that if I could sing I would sing that song.

What I am doing and not doing – kissing and not kissing – making happy and not. If it's me all the way down, then there is something else we can do, beloved. Please tell me you know.