No Exactly

Sunlight momentarily breaks free of clouds and I pause accordingly before heading into the house. My true god. My unyielding beloved.

A man once said, “you will die in the prism of your life.” And a woman said, “all mothers are sinners.” What measure are words, exactly? All this to say that there is no “exactly.”

Days already begin to slip into a shorter version of joy. Cicada rattle in the westerly distance. Certain plants seem to grow tired of reaching. I'm never ready for this. Maybe someday I will again live where things grow all year long.

A partner as a safety pin, keeping things from exploding. A library of missteps and yet, mercy. Light attaches to compassion in a way which is only barely distinguishable from the light itself.

Monarchs few and far between. Yet, an abundance of lavender! A few blossoms go a long way. Can we ever do anything but take? I am bored and utterly exhausted from taking.