Are They Even Wildflowers

Your daybreak is not my daybreak and the science of this shoots off like an arrow in the opposite direction of the sibylline. We meet in this separation and briefly forget we need not leave home. This morning-dream reminds me of when I was home in an embrace on the banks of the West River. Lover, body and world disappeared into an exacting center point. I was righted for the moment, fully healed and oriented toward Heaven.

At home we cannot defile.
At home we cannot be defiled.

Listening to the oriole's lush, liquid song at sunset gets you more than half way there. A mated pair sings a duet and their notes rise to a higher center. Language can only get in the way by expressing impressions of plurality received in subjective states of awareness. Sure, it is enough to listen and enjoy the birdsong song. Yet it is also so much more.

If I've planted my own wildflower seeds and they grow, are they even wildflowers? Whatever the objective answer, bees visit in the morning, butterflies in the afternoon.

K. referred to her “colonial work life” and the phrase serrated in a way that only lightening can. When we were young, Travis climbed the 80 ft. oak in front of his house, lost balance and fell into telephone wires. Electricity passed through is hand, arm and torso, finally leaving the body from his thigh. After a lengthy hospital stay and many skin graphs, his parents cut down the offending tree branch. Everyday until we graduated our school bus passed by the sawed off reminder of his fall.

Even the palpable, electric sound of truth is just a symbol on our trail's oaken signpost; let's go home.