MAKE LOVE TO THE
SPARKLING PATTERN
Someone says 'you can't be there, there's nothing there,
there's not even any reason to uphold.' I want to nod, and
say, 'yeah, you're crazy alright.' But I don't - today was
a too-nice day for me to carp and quarrel, even with the
rain. I walked the Wakahoba Creek with a heart of gold
and a pattern of love. The woman next to me assented,
and, alongside us, freely, this miraculous dog kept up
and stayed with us, loose and curious, the entire way.
There was a sign, said 'Copperheads.' I guess it meant
snakes. Or was that some sort of old phrase of money?
No one knew anyway, and I didn't care. I got to the
little barn and shed I'd sought - nicely red, and some
people nearby I'd known before. We all sat down and
talked. Did I realize here a pattern? Yes. This life is
a silent grace, a period only broken - now and then -
by the right kind of talk if you let it. I saw their faces,
the freckles and the spots, and knew this was another
moment : something to have and hold and treasure,
like the flight of a distant bird, coming back for
another dose, another cage-kept go-round of living.
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