post-reflections by the lake

There are things that I re-member. Peace again, together. And I have moved. I awoke shortly thereafter, and I peeled a pomegranate. I listened to the songs. I meditated and danced, still holding the expanse I thought I lost. Sometimes I force words, but I never know where they come from. This is the first beautiful day I have seen here. Things have been cluttered and covered in snow. A good friend, though, reflects on subtler hues. She sees gold and amber and spice. She sees blue and night and ice. She sees. ["And still, a great deal of light falls on everything."] It was that new bathroom and hot water, these layers, my dog. It was seeing a lime in a plastic bag, wasting a match, and the robots. It was the difference in toilet paper and milk, in the disturbing absence of volcanoes and ants, in conversations and in men. I miss long signs of peace, your distinct offerings, knowing that to give thanks is just and necessary, and the circles. And I am giving different things away, in altered measurements. And I'm guarding, but not everything. I am in love crafted by some brilliant benevolence that knows pain and shame and all matter of dark things. But I am walking in the night now, and feeling safe. I still hold the expanse.