it’s been a fallow season for both snails and spiders here.
green bones, white flower.
on the landing outside our upper deck door. the last gardenia
bloom is open today. no more after this.
this morning the world is changing. I am changing too.
the world and me, siblings at the skin. sensitive to touch.
your touch most of all.
it, is the word for everything. our bodies. our thirst.
is, is the word for beingness itself. Being is. I am.
said another way, it is.
Like a rule: you go where your attention goes.
unless it finds you first.
uncertainty, by another name is openness. means
past is not projected as future sight.
open and close.
heart moves breath, open close open close
he asked me if it was, the small red cover notebook
bundled with other folded sheets between pages, here
beside me on the bench, asked if it was my bible?
No. Something else, my reply.
then a moment more. I wonder, is it?
just first cast poem scratches. is it my bible? is it?
if it is, it also is – undone. doing, always.
in these words there’s no ending here.
open close open close
your best self lives where you don’t yet know. anything.