One: What is life, but a line written in water? Why are we drawn to each delicate manifestation only to see its dissolution? Why does each cup of light hold also a drop of black that grows with each passing day; poisoning us as we drink?
Two: Or is each shimmering sculpture the whole of God? Is each dissolution a revelation, and the ache of loss only the pain of smallness we believe ourselves to be? What’s the lesson of the curious cat’s paw that touches my chin like the landing of clouds?
Three: I keep defining edges, naming names, but love ever escapes these traps. Looking into those deep black wells I call eyes, which the cat calls by no name, only silence is needed to exchange essence. The delicate incessant transience, and the piercing clarity of eye, or leaf edge, or wake of water, mingle, spread, leave, dissolve, become.