LIV.

Between my body and the green mountain, a barbed wire fence.
This side is dust, a few sparse sunbaked weeds, a wooden pallet
I have chosen to rest upon. Today the wire, which easily could
be pulled apart or rolled under, creates an effective segregation.
I wouldn't even call what I feel, looking towards that lush place,
longing, more like some strange acceptance of things happening
in time. I am reminded how I stopped reading St. John of the Cross
when he referenced being weaned from the tit of God. I simply closed
the book for the night, not sad, having recognized my desolation
within a larger context. I want to lead more than a coddled life so
I will accept less, even much less when necessary. Sitting in dust,
Feeling thirst and dryness, close but still separated from what's
wild springing, I know my brittle. Today this fenceline in Colorado
is where I need to be aware. I don't need to understand why.

By Lisa Gill
from Red as Lotus: Letters to a Dead Trappist.