Late afternoon. I’m sitting in an armchair in the back garden, under the overhang, watching the wind whip the world to and fro.
Above the tree line, the sky veers from pale gray back to the marvelous blue that it was only an hour or so earlier.
The earth spins us away – clouds thick and thin, swaying trees, burnt grass, stars not yet visible, tan cat coming across the lawn meowing, me, you – and back again.
Yes, and no, too.
I am not thinking what I see. I am what I see, white blossoms on a vine I have never seen before.
As wrote Fernando Pessoa/Alberto Caeiro:
Loving is eternal innocence,
And the only innocence is not to think…
(Amar é a eterna inocência,
E a única inocência é não pensar…)