Dip a toe, throw a stone, the water isn’t waiting. Ask for mercy, pray for rain, the work won’t do itself. There’s a shortcut to most how dos, you cross a river by crossing it, the quickest path is the old straight through. The literature is readily available, life lessons and hard time. There are always steps to follow when you’re out blazing trails, bullet points and storyboards and parables galore. Put one foot in front of another on repeat and the rest almost writes itself. The rules you write are so written as you walk and whistle. Offer up and bear down, and hope your back holds out.
I am down here smoking on puzzles I have made of procedures, thinking with grease and embers about treetop mysteries while I serve my residence in the earth. I mumble and drool upon the fleeting phoebes and the fastidious wrens, watching a dark eyed junco attend to a peanut left by the crews of squirrels and the local crow, the collateral always there when you start this sort of conversation. My eyes turn up towards the picked over branches, still bare before the rumors of spring. The architecture of this arrival, time measured in root and reach. The phoebe dives stitching foundation to firmament, the crow in the gutter feasting on motives.
We wear away our inadequate masks going from op to op and task to task, serving that which is speaking from behind the screen. The vivid predicate and the litany of flesh, taste and appetite and the pause to birth unexpired alibis. We carry our water and daily face our fates, here where the remnants drape the ruins. Here where the words give out and you wake with the sun and follow the stars, where you tie the threads and weave away tomorrow’s tread. Setting forth with your veiled disciples through wood and underbrush you put the moon to use and the sea through its paces. There upon the last penitent period the gravid ambiguity between the vessel and the path.
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