I must ask what to do, as I always must when the question comes to me. The question comes to me on the wing, as all things come to me I know not who. Indeed my very being is an innocuous gift, my being a mystery. From depths of my psyche I have arrived here only not to know what to do. In the depths of this difficulty, I wonder why.
Fairly clear day, nice breeze, sunny & light, warm to cook, very busy at the Woods.
So I will ask God to send me a means to the answer. Immediately he says: “Do the right thing.” Others have said: “Do what you feel” or “Do what you feel you should do.”
But all things are not so easy and all answers do not plumb the depths. Wisdom demands I tread the path between reality & the soul, which is the path of the highest language–poetry.
Love. do I love
poetry: [I am working toward a personal poetry, a personal language]
Brown hair, freckles, smiles, soft young perky,
voice on the phone, like Rosemarie’s
a true account of the actual
and telling the story of my love
The story of my love, in pictures, images, smells, & trees.
The love of summer and confidence in the rainbow.
Attention with a mind toward you
Images of St. Francis of Assisi, with birds, blessing the flowers.
Nights of love, days of skies filled with silver-lined clouds.
Dreams of passages, of melting curls of smoke
Of wisps of mist rising over a meadow with a stone-circle.