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Three Months: Two Soft Holy Saturdays


A bee tends to a purple bloom
Squirrel descends from among the shadowy shelter of green-tree canopy
White butterfly softly arrives
Like the silken thoughts of my mind
From out of the side of my dreams from out of the side of my understanding a memory arrives (dropped gently like a gift or like that white-shy butterfly)
Of you and I in the coolness of that night
Of the still dark holy of that night
Of the uncertain certainty of that night
And of the silken thread gilded with sparks that some unseen being thread and wove around us that I saw….
Parker Palmer says of vocation, “What is it that you cannot not do?”
And for me there is nothing, except
I cannot not love you.

 

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