That I am is the only currency of knowledge. All others pay with memory. Tonight there is this memory of a cherry tree, essential being, and that great unknown I am—the wholly trinity.
This morning there was anger at the world so words were said and all is now forgiven. That's the way it is with conditioned thought. It rises out of primordial memory and messes with unconditional love.
Emotion happens. Something there isn't tries to hold emotion in. Sadness is its birth. Anger is its death. On the verge of another mistake, I let my words out. My brother used to tell me to go play in traffic.
Like the morning after Ogunquit Beach 1976, Christine, when I drunkenly fell through a sliding screen door and turned to love within your secret mesh, an august sun is burning through the fog.
No comments:
Post a Comment