11 pm, the night open like a calm lake, clean, pellucid, yet darkly opaque. six blackened silhouettes, boys, move through our back yard ignoring barriers, while their voices, pure, enter through our front open windows, songs of childhood, rare crystalline perfection, unadulterated for now. alone in the kitchen but not alone, i watch them out the small back window, know divinity poured into a cup, know awe of body, know unlimited stretch of spirit, their small voices rising up to the gods, not in prayer but knotted in the indulgence of being, know opportunity, know too pain to come. i both die and am born again in the complicated place where both birth and death exist as one, taken form and flight in the uncontainable embodiment of mid-summer laughter.
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mindemoya, summer 2008
it hurts to know these moments exist, existed, no longer exist, nor can ever exist in exactly the same way again, but will exist again - newly. it hurts. and we are blessed.
