Who Else is Worthy

Kale, tomatoes, peppers, zucchini and summer squash. Broccoli keeps coming.

Mosquitoes harvest my arms and legs.

Suffering shows you where your mind is still clinging.

Daisies are ending but milkweed pods are ready to open. I take a small bag with me on my walks so that I can collect the pods when they open from the giant milkweed field behind Rush Creek. I have plans.

Beneath the pine black mulch gives way to circular stepping stones which butt up against all manner of wild weeds. Violets are tall enough to hide rabbits until they move, and then, the leggy canopy betrays their direction.

I shall not renunciate nor fully integrate the passions and desires, foibles or neurosis, proclivities and bents, joys or sorrows.

Death-birth-death-birth.

And yet, he wrote, “The air smells of thunder and torn clover.” To die and be born again in a single moment is the fate of this dance. And that soul....that writerly expressive God-hewn soul, cannot help but collect his brothers and sisters like wayward sheep.

The shepherd-mystic, hunter of lost men, kingfisher above the busy world of water and life . . . I see you there.

You honored Shiva and won her respect. Who else in this life could be worthy?

The storm gathered power as it marched over Lake Michigan in the night. We are powerless now and in many ways, that is what we need to know.