it all circulates in the same sky.
You compare your rocks to mine,
higher or longer, more or less,
and the space we occupy becomes our very life, how we count wrinkles, the taste of salt stings out tongue so that we cannot taste anything else, and becomes bitter.
We don’t close our eyes, breathe deeply, and open again, seeing anew. You hate the tree, the building, the space that’s always been there, and you fight to make yourself someone you will never be, all the while never being anything at all.
What makes you alive is not where you are or what you’ve done but who you are.
The reflection of your face in the rippled river is not a distortion but the truth, the mirror of Grey’s, a thunderstorm of your maiden name.
Long ago, there was nothing but what was, and that was enough. What is enough? Drinking the whole ocean? Slurping the riverbeds dry? In the mean time, I strike up a conversation with the blue jay, and he says he is enough.