Shine shine shine

Fog on the hillside
and running through my lungs

The sun spokes through
the wings of a sparrow
   
as it beats a bright path
across the field 
                 
spilled open with dew-dappled
spiderwebs
like a pirate deciding
his treasure
was ours


Shine shine shine 


Later, a red leaf
takes off on a lark
and gambols downriver

and I am the only one
wise to its stumble,
its easeful incision
into a current

peopled by pond skaters
saving their best dance
for light


A fawn
pokes its nose
through the brush
alongside me

to look,
with alarm

and—
curiosity

From time to time

(Screenshot from Tarkovsky's "Stalker")

"It's been so long since I wrote pure dialogue."

"Then let's get started."

"I—why don't you tell me what it is you want first."

"Me? I want silly things. Romantic things. Things that have nothing to do with the body and everything to do with the space between. I want the moon. And why not the stars? And how about a creek bed at sunrise with a nice topsoil of fog. And maybe—maybe just—a tender phrase, from time to time."

"It's important to want those things. It's important to remember to want those things."

"You'd forgotten?"

"No, but I wanted them only for myself. I trusted only myself with them."

"There's poetry enough in solitude."

"Yes, but hold on."

"Sure."

"No, I mean it—the kids are in the other room, arguing. Hold on."

"I'll go."

"No—don't. Please. Don't leave."

"A tender phrase, from time to time."

"Yes, but—"

"A creek bed laid from skipping stones."

"I—yes."

"The stars."

"The stars."

"The moon."

"The moon."

"A thousand eyes alongside."

"A thousand  . . . "

"What is it? Your voice just dropped."

"That's what scares me anymore."

"What? The eyes?"

"I feel—I feel exposed. Especially lately, with all the rejection. I feel so terribly exposed. Which is, in itself, embarrassing. As if people were actually watching me. As if they had anything invested in my success or failure as a writer. It's madness. And yet—"

"I can't hear you. You're mumbling."

"I said—it doesn't come as easy anymore."

"Then open yourself wider."

"How wide?"

"Wider than embarrassment. Deeper than self-consciousness can stomach."

"How—how's this?"

"Better."

"Okay. I have to go now. The kids—"

"Go on, then. Get out of here."

"Just one more thing."

"What?"

"Come back?"

"All you have to do is ask."

"Come back."

"Alright."

Good morning

Maybe there's not much to say about turning 40. 

Maybe it is what it is, like it is for everyone, and will be for me again, if I'm fortunate.

Instead, here's a picture of a fawn, come to drink from the lake, which has a clarity only morning can muster. 

Isn't she beautiful? 

Wasn't I lucky to capture that?

The world gets more beautiful, not less, with time. I think so—if you keep your eyes open. Maybe that's why aging hurts so much. It's not all sadness or the yearning for a youth gone past. 

It's the exquisiteness of having, when all of life is positioning you toward loss. 

And yet—isn't she beautiful?

Wasn't I lucky?


And don't you just love it when you're in your own skin and the silence surrounding you— 

lasts?