The sky is like El Greco’s: charged with light and clouds. The sun penetrates the trees, and is slowly sinking. The lush green edges of the trees are lit up. The spaces between the clouds and the clouds themselves form a pattern like moving thoughts in the mind. The voices of birds trickle through the air to my ears.
The future of writing lies before me, and I see language as a beautiful home. The spaces between the clouds and the places I have been fold into one. The day slides into the evening; the earth falls asleep.
We drink in the poetry and its wetness
Its liquid freshness stirs us to life
And we hearken the call of the angel in the poet’s face.
The evening is warm and the light of the sun has not yet folded in the East.
A poetry reading is approaching and I am preparing to meet it.
I must loose the tides
free myself from my limitations
and discover my subject
The void renders one capable of sin. I am aware of the void well enough and I will mind God rather than it. I will move forward, breaking new ground each day, never getting into a rut, or once in a rut scrambling out quickly. Seeing rightly, listening to my individual voice, with faith and trust and hope in God who made me and everything. I will set sail freely each day anew. Being set out of a rut each day by God, who needs me to do His work. He can’t have me in a dirty rut all day. If I wake up in one he helps me out of it. The ruts of sin he abhors. Doing the same damn thing over and over again is not what I want to do, and not what I have to do. I have a successful blend of severity and acceptance. I cannot accept sin for myself, what is wrong, what is not right, what goes against my soul and I am given the bread to sustain me and the power and energy to overcome sin. There is no void for those who make a place for God. I’m neither John Tagliabue nor Simone Weil, nor anyone else. I am myself and I contain vast sources of wisdom, which I am discovering more of each day.