Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other" doesn't make any sense.

                                                                   Rumi - 13th century

(Clinton Pottery, Utica Street, Clinton, New York)

 

seventeen hundreds.  flowers and water for children.  i couldnt read my own writing on the sheet laid down to show.  a red register and i think i stepped on the green paint.  forgive me.   housebones made from the woods about it, ankle deep in the snow he allows me to wander up close and down theres just so much to see.  come this summer and throw a pot, a cup, a bowl, something defined by the space it makes for something else.  come this summer and find yourself gently engaged in the matter of being Alive. 

  

 couldnt read my own writing, erudite doodle to fill the page, a blue field with oak trees did you see the star?  the sign of chalice well?  i critiqued his mithers handiwork and couldnt read my own pen on the page.  what i meant to say was how monsters and angels are one and the same, we are monsters and angels we are atomic and cruel, the impossibly sharp teeth obsolete in the skin of a red berry arranged on a plate.  the chocolate is gone i cannot eat it anymore the white bed duvet thrown back to morning standing before the window before the chair regarding the day the water running through.  

ankle deep in snow feeling like id been gone a long time.  effortless, or maybe its my total lack of social graces the little room upstairs window open to february evergreen thaw looking out on the wrought iron table and chairs looking out past times grit in the eye into something under the skin hes been throwing clay long as ive been alive.  are you you?  i stood there awhile in the toxic crimson particulate before i knocked on the inside of the door.  thank you.

came home and had ty-phoo in the cup with soymilk and local honey, ate from the bowl with my silverhandled ebony chopsticks.  thought of the Beloved, underloved and overwhelmed, how i must be Too Much and Not Enough, like they all say i am.

 

is the baby here?  did she turn toward her mothers hand?  last night Solitary Circle to Call the Baby Down im still running on that Dark, that Light.  sometimes i think Dresden is easier to navigate alone, youre not distracted by the Others distress, you get farther.  but if the object is Reunion, why would Together be a second choice?  without the Boon the words come plain, but they come at all and i am grateful.

 pledges have been made but in my broken heart i doubt them.

forgive me.