comfort zones

“And now I see that I am sorrowful about only a few things, but over and over.”
—Mary Oliver

July 2011

In June, I dreamt of New York City: the subway, tucked and nested shops,
sand dunes, snow drifts on the beach.

In July, at 6:47pm, so much light still.

In August, I prayed the cadence of life would find me awake and wanting.

Suddenly, it is October. It feels like beautiful trouble, like tasteful nudes,
both a precipice and an orientation towards receptivity.

For the first time in a long time I’m not worried.
I know how to wait for the giving to begin.

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