From the beginning, one by one, these pages proclaim, We are karma.
Before dawn, a sliver moon, the rest of its shadow clearly visible.
This morning’s sunflower visitors: chickadees, nuthatches, scrub jays, squirrels — all talkative, reveling in what they have found, telling all the world.
Thrice exalted: first by your kind presence; then by my short fast; and finally in answering the call of my hunger.
September 5, 2021
And What Does the Day Sing?
Please don’t take this medium for granted. It can disappear in an instant. Don’t waste a moment in anger or pose. Let yourself blossom. Be as intimate as the hug of a child, and as welcoming as the eyes of a faithful old hound. “Dear, we have company!” “Good! I’ll put on the kettle!” For in all truth, we are our own angels and guests, and this world is our hearth and our home. Imagine it gone. Imagine yourself alone on the road, turned away with suspicion at every door. You look different. Your language is new. The familiar is strange, and so are you. And then you remember: I too, once had the chance to say, “How do you do?” Corny, isn’t it? Oh, yes — right into our graves, corny and moldy and blue. And what does the day sing? It sings, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Recently Banned Literature, February 11, 2017
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