I die daily
this morning I was shot the width of my heart.
a sun harsh morning, blurring my vision. An assassin here, no there, off, eying the scope from the pines. Shot me to ribbons, standing in a wet field. The shot, the fall, startled hens from their roosts, into a ruffled, pollen dusted flight. sunblood blurred vision. The silence. A vacuumous return. The wacky life force stronger that nature, it is nature, and I begin again rolling out of bed, swearing I'll study French, and live on a ranch.
this here, now, is the greatest thing I will ever do. For I have not accomplished it yesterday, nor 500 years ago. It has something to do with compassion, and it has mostly to do with telling you.