I pointed out the spill:
Did he want to change his shirt?
“Don’t worry about it, Tim.
It’s part of the design.”
I pointed out the spill:
Did he want to change his shirt?
“Don’t worry about it, Tim.
It’s part of the design.”
Love is not a scrubby little power we muster,
a scrambling to order affairs according to our
own perception of goods (that scaffolding we build
to lift our heart to heaven), but rather
concession of the self to the power that would
remake us, were we to allow it, into the giving
person we always hoped we’d be. I say:
Bring it on!
One goes one way
and another another
while I
wonder in-between
I’ve run on ahead of where my
mind was, and am looking around now
at
You’ll know where you are when
you’ve been there, but until then
Standing still I can feel it all catching up –
or is it something new coming on?
Nothing, nothing, a deer’s eyes
emerge from the fog.