I have spent my whole life developing a theory justifying living untheoretically.

A favorite item can’t be replaced.

The cup I was —
I liked to drink out of —
is broken now.

Was it my fault?
Was it my faults? —
the fault lines that make it
 so easy to break?

No!
In defiance...
No!
In love... with, of, for myself
In the fire,
I bleed gold
and heal.
Resplendent! 

My faults
No!
My spangles
My Self

A supersaturated atmosphere
 of raw energy envelops us,
 creating a million potential tributaries.
Any lucky one elucidates its burning
 connection up to heaven,
 rightly, quaintly, evoking God.

Child monk
Full of sin
What does it matter!
blissfully oblivious
God cradles you

A footpath lifts you above the ravine
A gentle breeze kisses your cheek
A tumult gusts in the tree tops
 merely to thrill your
 devilish little heart

It was a hard winter
 though it rarely froze
In a pleasant, desperate search
 I walk the entire park
 for respite

A tuft of purple crocuses
 The sniff of a dog
  Little waterfalls
 The bend of the river
Will it be enough?

Intuition indicates the right path
I hesitate, but take it
Such a long walk — for what?
and to go the whole way —
 it's getting late

I reach the horses’ ring
The naked woods are on fire
The bold sun hovers atop the hill yonder,
its rays a kaleidoscopic crown,
as if waiting for me the whole time

Mercifully temperate summer days
 glide into autumn.
The footfalls of my vintage
 recently-purchased
 Doc Martens sandals
 advance on air.
The pedals of my quaint
 just-restored
 Bianchi Parco
 churn in silence.