I think once again about your brother and sister-in-law, god-awful uncertainty as they await the news. I almost hear their parental oath, or nearly so since the legal process started with his birth, this infant boy they're hoping to adopt who's been exposed to heroin and meth. How much so they don't know yet, but expect the tox screens will soon appear, announcing extent and consequence.
Till then their prayers are ample, open to inscrutable will, yet not remotely serene. The couple's caught up in their frequency. Naturally they're solicitous to gain everyone's lifted pleading, fruitful and keen. So when asked if I will pray, I sense it's the least, potently least, I can do as they do their best outside the NICU. So blessings upon your family, both immediate and extended. (I mean
your family, but then again the prayers too, lifted by air across hope's mezzanine.)
I like the way that shrubs and flowers lean against my classroom windows as if wanting to enroll. What would the azalea say when asked about the Forest of Arden? And would the red, red rose respond to my mistress' eyes as something, after all, like the sun? What's not to like in these my vernal, budding pupils— so firmly rooted in this soil, so curiously intertwined? My vegetable love should grow with each new bell of earnest fragrance, fair and passing fair, each one. As Eve once more eats of that fruit, I hear their universal groan.
To be open to receive the spirit. Easily said: just writing down these words. But it may not come as we would have it in some Byzantine icon of the Christ, Buddha rotund in my neighbor's yard, a thousand Muslim men salaamed in prayer. It may have to appear in ugliness. Today out of a sky black, cold and hard as onyx I still had the vision come. It was the bird we all call tomorrow. You know the one: you saw it as a child. It came to you the first dawn you saw light and found the word for it: the huge not-you. You stood up in your crib. It spoke to you.