Porous for the now

I have a naked feeling of wonder about birds that sing at dusk, and new spring clover that’s folded and quiet under a fading sky, and the distant constant song of water. I feel like a sieve for splendor. And writing makes me a funnel between this – the closing-in dark with stars poking through – and you, whoever you are, reading. I want to give you the crisp air and porchlight yellow on the page and affection for grass creeping lazily onto the sidewalk. Sharing this feeling, this awake quiet wow, is the best of what we can give each other. We can write about our fears, and I’ve overdone that, but now as the earth sings into my body, all I want to write is the goodness that swarms in me, fills me to overspilling, lives richly in and around my skin. I want to share this watchful awe so you feel the wrap of cool sky, hear crickets pulse, understand the sensation of being mesh: riddled with openings, porous for the now to melt through. So you can lie down in the creek song and cricket song and fresh big blue-dark universe. Make yourself into a cup to be satisfied by this night. Darkening, humming, punctured with star-glitter, utterly unconcerned with tomorrow.


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