Spokes of light that sang over the valley,
spun flames that trembled like the wings of doves.
How did we walk all summer and into the next
season of rain? But we did, as if into the arms
of our most familiar, into the flesh of our everyday
fate. Did we have time to make garments out of our
recurring laments? We must have cried out in the heat,
in the cold; or clung to a bridegroom, an archipelago
of circling desires. Sometimes to wait is not an option.
Sometimes the only thing to do is hurry into the coming storm.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.