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David McAleavey

In which there is a flow, flowers. Where soil runs away with the stream. In the mist, where birds declare sunrise. Where some turn left and others right. In a catastrophe of pure self-aggrandizement, in the middle of a nightmare, in a scene of carnage, in the thick of thin. Now, when courage is called for, when it makes a difference. In which Jesus sees the seed growing out of itself, into the air and into the soil, where many seeds have already fallen. In which the years compress, city years and the years away from town. When it’s fashion to call a bad performance “lame,” and when that is wrong. When calls to counselors increase. Because we want our lives to be wonder-filled, significant. In which the mysterious moon’s orbit’s weird. Also tides. In March, full of daffodils and government agents. In which we could use direction, or revelation. At least distracting witchcraft. When the Neolithic matters, when the lithic, when matter. Of which so much. In which codes seem to push everything, and what remains. In which Jesus decides to be Jesus, and that is a good thing. In the drift. In the night and in the worries of the morning, in the night. In dread. In which dread falls away. In which a new understanding begins, neither happy nor an ending. Now.