You said I am ridiculous.
You have called me crazy.
What do you imagine you are defending?
But I will tell you this:
I am crazy
like the crazy bird singing,
At last, at last the sun has come out,
like the crazy tree groaning,
The wind, the wind is blowing east,
like the crazy dog barking,
This chain, this chain is hurting me.
Or maybe it is just voice, deeper than human reason,
the sound of being
what they are.
This tongue is useless
as the filament tongue of the garter snake.
I am not trying to say hello.
I am trying to say I am in love with Rumi.
The sun is never long enough in the east.
It’s how we spin.
But I will set off
with my snake ears,
sounds from everywhere bouncing off me like prayer.
Until night pushes down on a day
that refused to end.
If there were other realities,
ones in which I was not socially inconsistent,
where I wouldn’t freeze like a rabbit seen,
where all my senses were dulled and my hand was not ready to block,
where I was talkative and jovial,
it is likely I would live in the desert
and people would be too thirsty to care.
But the end person would still be the same,
the way I move through life, exact.
You would recognize me.
In this pocket of woods the path is narrow. It is rutted and rooted and it winds around like a fairytale, past the pampas grass with their avian plumes, through the slender birch trees, up a small hill where the spruce tree grows, and down again to the oak grove.
It is later than the clock says. The sun can not raise its head high enough to warm the lichen covered rocks.
This is almost beautiful. When I put together the colors, the brown and gray, the dry yellow and slight green, they are so muted they are nearly silent. The sweet smell of decay that we call autumn is all around. But it is not enough. It is not what I crave. Will it ever be enough? And is that why we drink and eat and sleep? To dull our senses? To talk ourselves into accepting near beauty?
Now, in the oak grove, the trees have stripped naked and, with their wild arms, are ready to embrace winter. And I, in my dusty black boots, stand upon their well tailored leaves, wishing I could surrender like that, in gratitude and thanksgiving, desiring nothing, giving everything.
Love has no wrath.
That would be contrary to its nature.
When the storms come, full of prevarications and thieveries, watch where the coins land.
Squint your eyes to keep out the spinning sands and embrace the world like the full moon on your chest.
Accept less for yourself.
Do your small goodnesses.
And the Love that has no wrath will find you, like a homing pigeon, and the others will vanish as if they never existed.