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