Still, the writing only goes in one direction. It's not my decision. Every effort to dig at the fertile places barely releases dusty remnants – specks polluting the deep breaths that deliver your name. Sentences, poetry, jots, hey you . . .
a yes to what leads me - our prescription: Be!
Your eddy, my sun, play in coherence. There's the moon, too. Maybe I love the moon for its emptiness. Its beams alight on all the same, causing the question: do I reflect too much? Yet it all is . . . fueling this orbit for now.
The forest shifts color unto the earth, and the grey vault of winter begins to adhere. It is time to listen more closely to what has always been here. The babbling brook . . . too long I have called it this or that, without listening to the name it always returns. In my wakefulness and in my sleep Beloved, I love you the same. So before ice demands your laughter, perhaps we will get this right.
I am listening now. Your smooth stones worn by motion settle into the soft portion of my open hands. Accept these letters until they disappear in perfection. This one who tends can do nothing more.
“ I am the vine, you are the branches . . .”