Tuesday, September 10, 2019
September’s sun wanes, slanted, weakened, leaving morning dew longer, lingering to reveal the spider deep in her lacy funnel lined by luminous prismed drops as countless as her eyes. I walk to pick the morning’s herbs and see the shining threaded webs woven among the sorrel, the bent bladed grass. I step carefully. How many times have I wrecked something beautiful without knowing?
I am a beggar in this world; everything I have has been given to me. My bowl is always daily empty: I receive ...
The lowest limb on the closest maple has just been led by the wind into a graceful dip so subtle, so qui...
Photograph by Greg Clary 2020
I will never not listen Your voice like streets Of the sea teeming Turned over, trembling and Tumultuous Sometimes you’re too l...