I'm meditating; a cold silent morning.
I love this
window
way in the back
in early gentian morning
down which light's long
labyrinthine whispers
reach my ear, I
would like to describe it to someone,
to myself, my blind companion—
Why did I turn to this
forsakenness again?
People say, "there's only the present moment," but I disagree. Eliot had it better; we want to know the origin from which everything takes coordinates, "The still point of the turning world... Where past and future are gathered."
Today I will learn the results of my recent CT scan. The outcome can't affect how the light falls on the vase across the room.
Thanks, Andrew.
Wishing you the best in the scan results.