The girl by the window in the empty room,

Tired eyes and a searching gaze—

Cathedral and clouds, mountains and moon—

The view invites a waiting mind to roam

Ahead to a time when thoughts

Aren’t thought alone, when arms are

For more than bending to the warp and weft

Of life lived alone, of life she’s always known,

But dreaming ahead on a quiet night

Only opens a heart to the pain of

What isn’t yet true, of time and time and time without you,

Of time and time and time. Without you.

What will we be to each other, my love?

In the midst of a day full of other objectives
of thoughts and distractions that keep the mind active
a quiet, small strain of something old recollected
slips by in the background, almost neglected.

At first it confuses, familiar but not
quite familiar enough to place into it’s spot.
Warm like the brush of an old worn fabric,
its presence is kind and makes you feel whole,

Like the rhythm of time gone past has a soul
that recognizes the place you have come
is one you were meant to be all along
and this little reveal in the form of a song

is to let you know you can keep walking on.

I read not to reach the end
But to keep beside me a well-worn friend
To offer as I walk along
Different views than I had thought
To picture in the world around me:
Notes from dusty minds.

Feel without reason.
Without being
By any definition.

Sadness like weather.

Don’t hide;
The clouds wouldn’t.

The air is heavier today;
It doesn’t need explaining.

Raindrops fall
When it is rainy season.

Don’t wonder why.
Another “why?” would follow.

Observe
This season

As part of what you are.

Feel because feeling
Is your only hint

To a presence
That lends nothing.

“the Rockies may tumble
Gibraltar may crumble”...

All our ideas will fade.

You are feeling these senses
In a vast silent pretense—

A mistake of tumbling matter.

Where energy passes
As soon through the stars

As through the passions below,

And all looks on
At all opposed
As it passes from this world.

 Progress is not linear; it proceeds only until it falls away again.

I once thought I had gained so much experience with endings, with accepting the temporary nature of any part of life: a place, a practice, a person. And, for a time it was true. I could bear the last expression with peace for trusting the next encounter, though different, would also be meaningful. Now, I seem fragile. I remember those old partings calmly, but i can hardly bare current disappointments. However trivial, if I catch sight of something that connects to my actual care, then lose it before reaching out to it, I will be devastated. I need a night of complete seclusion to mourn with myself. With a damaged heart, I feel the need to avoid that instance and all that follows from it, not willing to break down again to wade toward some solution or other similar alternative. Just let me be, and keep that thing which wounded me far from my unmoored thoughts. It is not a place of courage I look out from, these days. I most often regret bringing anything I care about to surface, instead of living in the patterns of others.

But if the line of progress is a wave, it should at some time turn to rise again.