Oh oh. Do you feel it? The centrifugal pull, the center (or “centre”, as Yeats wrote) tearing loose; it all coming apart at the seams? Scattering. That false orderliness? The niceness, and the politeness, loose and limp, pulled to sea in a receding tide? Yes, you must feel it, no?

Put up a smile and a pretend and all is all right. Yes?

Or study the sky at night and hold true to the future read there. The ascension of Libra renders this poor pilgrim at fifty plus seven seasons. There is yet no place for the transcendent but one can still hold hope. The mystery is yet secure.

The rainbow out of the river this afternoon, slippering out of hand to water and returning home, made us laugh, dinner swimming away with such sweet relief.

–evening ramblings, poetic advances, Frisco, Colorado.