A Mystic Looking Back at Making Love

It's almost been two years since last I loved a woman. And there has to be some kind of irony divine that it occurred on Independence Day,

or night to be specific. There were fireworks despite the fact the two of us had done that kind of thing for thirteen years together.

If I knew it was the last time, that this could be the last time, maybe just the last time, I don't know.

I may have paid attention, maybe kept a journal, at the least I could have written all those movements in a poem.

True I do appreciate detachment from the personal and all its gossiping concern for politics in every damned relationship between a me and you.

Yet it’s not sex but touch of flesh on flesh and lips to lips and tongue with tongue and more the overarching warm embrace of two becoming one,

as if the apex of this evolutionary realizational intent was being played out in a bed of flowering delight,

a whirling dervish mystic union of all this with That, like every ardent color of the spectrum reuniting with its secret dark and bright.

Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, here comes that void of night!

A Taoist Spring in Northeast Massachusetts

Spring is slow in blossoming this year. On a walk along the river Sunday, I saw a patch of dandelions,

seven pussy willows laced in light green catkins, and the early petals of forsythia in their attempt to turn the empty branches yellow.

The rest was barely in a state of bud. But yesterday it rained, at times in downpours, and last night I heard a line of thunder

echo down the river like a lonely highway in Nebraska. Fog was low this morning but I know the curtain soon will rise.

Transformation is the only thing on earth that's certain. Oh, I also saw a butterfly.