by Josh Huber
At the kitchen counter, the silence could dissolve into something, at long last, other than layers of more sound. I might break the brain’s strangle-hold on perception, see beyond the daily dimensions, feel into a cosmic space where universes twirl within one another; where spring’s stains–bright flowers smudging up through drab earth, the wet and green of grass spreading, winds brushing swaths of last years brown over the landscape–mean miracles coming.
But the plastic kitchen clock is preaching reality by the second. It insists this time, this space is inescapable. There is naught naught naught ineffable its jumping hand protests.
Still it is possible to believe that love will fill all emptinesses, neutralize all forces of annihilation, sanctify every blooming thing.It is possible.
Love.
Simple as that. Hard as that.
Love ineffable and near as breath. Our water and sustenance, anchor and sail. The force through the green fuse drives life’s fire.
Love–and this is all enough and more than enough–love.
We make it. In the end, we do, love.
