Penultimate Sunday or March of Spring, or Bring the Tulips Whispering Hello Sky Again

I am at the Sunday office in the service of Poetry Again—honoring Wallace Stevens, business man, poet, philosopher and dear, dead friend. There is so much to thank so many for, even myself, if I could muster all of that energy needed to give myself credit when I have been trained to question, to do better, to reverse and analyze what could have traversed. Yes, always, in hindsight, the rearview mirror blurring regret or sadness, the messiness of afterbirth or stillbirth or. . . . what the hell happened or did not?

Yes, counting counting counting all of the blessings and ignoring any possibility of curse. The SUV that side-swiped me not a personal vendetta and that person’s karma definitely f_ _ _ed for not even stopping. Not hit head on, not texting [me, I wasn’t I would confess], $$ from taxes, and some routing for me. How lucky. How blessed.

What could be construed as a curse, a genetic-misnomer condition something-or-other, feeds the part of the brain hungry for meaning, for real touch, for words that move others into places that may have been lost or never traveled.

Do you know, have you heard, have you travelled through the inner tunnels, gotten lost, lost everything and found what was important, what was__________ ? You should tell me. So that I am no longer. So lost. This Sunday. This. Whatever we call it. So grateful for finding a way. . .

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