Who is Asking

Is it possible in matters of love, like with most things, we have an appetite that is too big for us? Is there a smaller bite to take and make it our God?

Steel cut oatmeal with stevia, chia, hemp hearts and oat milk. The Glazunov floats from the three-seasons room over hastas and ferns, lifting between pine and oak to be ferried by west winds. May departs more quickly than it arrived. This and other ways that truth is an accident.

What of our substance is due to the external? At night when we shiver, a blanket is sought. At high noon when we melt, one finds shade. Who is the “I” which stays a little longer in the cold or demonstrates some sort of defiance by passing out from the heat? What part of man is more than a machine?

Yesterday's coffee, early morning watering, birds being lovely. Childhood hymns surface from who knows where. Morning has broken, like the first morning. Black bird has spoken, like the first bird . . .

The priest's gaze cut through all externals, melted the internals, and planted his staff at the core of my soul. The sea of me parted that day and you were revealed.

I still am only speaking to, for and of you, beloved. Would you bring to bed a tiny bowl of black raspberry ice cream to share after making love? This is not your queen asking but God's shared light, Herself.