Will you ride the great white bird into heaven

Title courtesy of Cat Stevens. (Yes, you can expect to see his words hereabouts for a while. I go through these things, you know. They pass. Something in me is made very glad by Mr. Stevens’ voice and words just now.)

Husband update: He is here. When getting ready for the surgery, his doctor noticed a new lesion. So that was removed along with everything already slated for removal. There is pain; there is pain medication. He doesn’t have to even think about work until Sunday. I get to go ice cream shopping after work today at this fabulous ice cream place in the Village (Cones on Bleecker Street). Thanks for the prayers and thoughts and good wishes and hugs, from both of us.
Okay, so my pen just went on this … I don’t know what … last night. Here it is.

Trundle notes

Insolent shadows lurk. They isolate themselves from the common, the communal flow of human discourse. In the shadows they forget the shape of conversation.

Bound to the first stroke of a pen, in this hour I tell her the things only revealing themselves now. For the way stretches before me, and I know I will never catch up, and yet it dawns on me that woven into the unusual dusky fury from which so long ago one soul was snatched in the nick of time or perhaps already too late for comfort is a wealth of the ordinary.

Short lines extend their length, seeking through the glissade of ink that dances out from a place so hidden and sacred it defies sight and description to bring some semblance of sense where a morass of confusion holds court and sway. Swans make their initial in the undeniably graceful curve of their necks as they glide, and my pen longs for such grace. Alas, the hand that holds it and works its progress on the page is fallible and awkward, often clumsy and inept.

But oh, to glide seamlessly into the truth. Come, love. In this quiet secret place maybe I can whisper what is in me. And maybe the pen, in resting, will find the shapes and strokes to lead toward some logical light.