finger of wind

I could open a vein this morning. I feel that pull, that flow, of sun rising, so silent in low spring arc, so relentless, this spinning, this rising and falling, this exhaling of heat into the darkness. And too, this giving of life. And I wonder of my waste, of what value is thrown into the ocean, of what feeds. Perhaps here, as I watch morning warm lucid petals, is my tether.

And I think of reading, of how I do so little anymore, of how I never wanted to read too much, never wanted to finish anything but the worst. I know this attraction, to lie in the summer grass and feel the breeze of life, cleansing. Life beckoning life. Brother to brother. This is how it feels. That kiss of warmth on my cheek. A brother looking back. A finger of wind calling forth.

___________

. . . I feel that pull, that flow, of sun rising, so silent in low spring arc, so relentless, this spinning, this rising and falling, this exhaling of heat into darkness. And too, this giving of life. . . . I know this attraction, to lie in the summer grass and feel the cleansing breeze. Life beckoning life. Brother to brother. This is how it feels. That kiss of warmth on my cheek. A brother looking back. A finger of wind calling forth. Come walk with me.

how

How does one write without what is not within? How does one add anything of substance to the daily narrative? What does it mean to build? And of addition, what is this? In a reality of change, can anything last? Is anything not relative? And of Love? What of this? This water and fish. This bird and air. So I say be damned all the clocks, especially the one on my wall that is an hour behind, that one I never bothered to change. It will be right again. I'd like to say the same.

Me