I know you saw it when you came this way - the pale yellow autumn leaves stuck to the ground, about the same size and shape as rose petals, not scattered aimlessly but not easily deciphered.
What did the leaf words say to you?
I have a hard time reading letters because they look like blossoming branches that sometimes bear fruit. My thoughts wander too easily, like a jar of honey left to warm in the sun tipped over, running through the spaces between table planks.
I’m too busy learning text bound by mud and brush, organized by insects and the accidents of wind. I have to ignore the machinations of the places we build on top of wildness, the strangeness and beauty of everything else is just too big.
Todays lesson began after the desert sat back to receive life-giving rain, leaning into itself,
settling,
ready to deliver another sermon of fragrance, crackling new sprouts that will sing their own songs.
I can’t really remember the proper names of things, but I see the ways they secretly talk to each other, look this way and that before dancing what they will dance. It’s really not a hard language to understand, you just have to stop thinking and start listening, let the world flow into you, with all of its many sudden prayers.
What did the leaf words say to you, and what did you answer back?
