Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

16 March 2010

"Even as we are, we are becoming."

little crocus in the yard.  a strong march wind that isnt hateful cold.  people out tentatively picking in the dirt, like gravediggers fingers in the pockets of the dead.  cats out hunting.  a hammock and a little river through the grass.  i am at ease.  i am expanding into the space of myself.  there is food and a fire.  this is our Reconstruction.  the rebuilding of what we have been and who we were apart and now again together.

"She was elusive.  She was today.  She was tomorrow.  She was the faintest scent of a cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl.  We did not know what to make of her.  In our minds we tried to pin her to corkboard like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew."

an old song running through my head we meet for gyros and good greek coffee what a surprise T. says, "nobodys perfect but shes well done."
and the earth is good and deep and brown and he wanders in the kitchen steam and we kissed over the garden gate like kids again and we labored good and hard in the gloaming me waiting in the afternoon sun on the stoop with a book and a bottle of wine i made a welcome ward for spring on the driveway with chalk i found eroded in the dirt i dug away from winters mulch of last years leaves and the little green so wise and strong up from sleeping into knowing who we are at last.

"i think you came the other night  / you stroked my brow / your eyes were full of light  / may have only been a dream  / but i would walk with you  / to places i never have been." 

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Blessed Be.

"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)