The feeling of growing old slowly, slowly, slowly, day after day, with the same beloved people. Smiles that come and go. Flowers and weeds. The seer waits in the in-between place, the all-around place. Sits in the stillness. Images stream through like leaves floating along with the river’s current. Lives come together and fall apart. Things happen. After the explanations, after the apologies, something remains. It becomes a part of the fabric of our selves, so that an arm, or leg, or heart, moves more easily this way than that. The mountain is pulled to pieces, truckload by truckload. The city pulls itself up over the plain, reflecting the sun. People move in the dust of the streets, spellbound and driven. Wheels turn. It’s the same song, over and over, tuneless humming in the bottom of the throat, echoing a call that comes from the guts, the feet, as the land comes up to meet us. You look and think. You promise, then forget. Words skim along the surface. They trail along behind like dandelion seeds in your wake. Underground we sit, eyes closed, half-smiling. From every direction come the tiniest hints of sound. We receive it all like grace, like a lover’s breath on the skin. This time is the time of a stirring before dawn, when the dream has not yet unraveled. We travel without departing. Always near. ___ *August 2018*