Imperfect

Perhaps a story, like a person, remains imperfect, incomplete, during its entire existence. Each and every masterpiece of digression is a person on the beach tentatively touching his or her toes to the edge of the sprawling sea. It is a Mobius strip in which the first and last lines and all unfinished fragments in between link up to frame a unique, never-ending cycle of creation – a beautiful reminder that new views appear with every footstep and rays of understanding will always illuminate what needs to be seen.

Maybe in the cool spring twilight, water in the stream drips between rocks and I remember when you turned fourteen. We read The Odyssey together, and in the midst of the story's high drama you questioned the preferential intervention of the Gods. At the point when Odysseus’ men grew so full of despair at the hopelessness of their situation that they broke into weeping, I felt a glimmer of clarity. Waiting for the light of the rising moon I stand up and look out past the gathering darkness still waiting for you, you who promised to visit me.

Camelot

Perhaps because I am able to love you today, happiness follows me like a shadow. The saint to be appreciated and the animal to be condemned that have always existed inside of me dissolve into one. I am at ease, like a sky deciding to become one kind of weather. I am a painting of birds, a metaphor for what I might call joy, for what you might call light.

Maybe Camelot, located nowhere in particular, can be found anywhere. Any one brief, shining moment in which we accept whatsoever is the case, without praising it or detecting faults. Next, we pick a language from what we're given as twigs collect by the side of the path and wild flowers space themselves along the meadow. Your arm reaching toward me becomes what I might call a wing - what you might call a knife.