I Moored There Once

Sunset unspools ribbons like warm silk cooling on a lover's departure.

Overnight rain gathers in camping chairs and settles in low spots near the garden. Narcissus lives here. How deeper truths will arrive in a subtle richness of experience if one can forgo the more linear forms of language. The river of spirituality is like that – a myth that cannot be conveyed by facts.

Poor Narcissus and Echo! They will never find the love they desire if they continue to look with eyes only. In fact, they are cursed to die alone and heartbroken.

Who writes the truth?

What story will you tell now?

By mid morning, humidity broods upon itself to create layers of suffocation. Water: a certain giver and taker of life. It's July and I haven't yet been to Gun Lake this summer. The lake means people and while I miss the way one lives in communion with the lake, I do not miss the people. But oh, to swim! To float with the coolness of depths at your back and the heat-energy of the sun on your front. All sensory input muted save the heat and coolness meeting at the bridge of your body.

I was moored there once – dreaming of a dance on the dock – skinny dipping into the reflection of the moon at midnight. Now it is known, as surely Narcissus must know, that there is something beyond himself, beyond the reflection and beyond even love.

Life is death, we're lengthy at
Death the hinge to life.

~E. Dickinson