Late, late afternoon here in the city. It’s that « moment » of day’s light sliding into night’s dark. Even as I’m writing that, as the words take form, I’m aware of day/night as convenient labels for the same « thing, » which is not a « thing » at all, but rather a constant flux impossible to hold.
The simultaneous transformations are unfathomable… As testament to a shred of it, we see the leaves, yellow, tan, brown, beige, green, some fallen, some not, still branching their fill of limbs. And hear the roar of a bus passing in the street, heading to the stop near the corner. Someone will mount, someone will descend, someone will ride on…
Meanwhile, cat’s on my lap. She and I have « advanced » in age together, imperceptibly moment to moment, yet our hearts are always touched with love right now.
Earlier, I received by email this verse of a poem by Dogen:
« But even though winter is icy cold, what warmth can compare/To one plum blossom outside, opening five petals in the snow. »
Dogen’s verses echo on my ears and am tempted to say something "clever". But my words seem empty after these and can only bow.
this vulnerability? of life –
(or how could i say this for words always seem so inadequate)
can be so unbearable? so breathtaking? so tender?, or simple? so just ‘as they are’ ?
as any nightfall
… l’ heurre blue…