Congruence of a Thousand Doors

What I am trying to express is beyond logic. It is ancient and recursive. Yesterday as the future of today.

Lex and I went to the middle school parking lot to shoot hoops. When she texted her dad to tell him where we were, he responded, “Oh! Ready to get schooled!” The reminder of how he knows me. Knew me?

Midnight dark is not mute. Insects purr and delicate breezes rustle a chorus of pine, oak and maple. Light winking from the past exhausts itself on its way to my window. I listen to my whole life and let each note pass as a fleeting moment. My body as an altar passes too.

Two mourning doves scatter from the garden each time I water. A particular door is closed to me and yet, a congruence of a thousand others open unto unending fields of beginnings and unfulfilled prophecies. Yet in my notebook, I write for you an impossible song.

I'm going to be honest with you and say that I wish I had a pill to take whereby I fall asleep instantly and wake refreshed and restored each morning. Instead I stay awake, writing letters to dead ancestors about aviators and poets, dogs and coffee, and my belief that we have all been here and done this before now.