now thoroughly small and dry

It is a dry time. Good Friday comes and The Garden is behind us. Cast out and hunkered down in the dust, thirsty, in denial.

This scrap went into my notebook tonight:

The well is dry.
We have sat by it all night
wondering about the secret
answers far below
afraid to ask questions.


And this is from my long-ago book, Finding Oakland.


I went to find a creek
today   a stream   a ditch
any water moving
They gave up the habit
with the end of spring
No reason to cut earth
batter rock   carry mud
another year

Most died of boredom
In the trickle of summer
its not worth the trouble
Some went in glorious
any reason to live
is a reason to die

A few by their own hands
The act prepared
in the quiet heart
alone   with the sound
of flies only
Draining mostly through
small holes punched
in the dust


Here in the long, dry riverbed of Time, we need rain. We need kindness. We need to turn from the unreality of self interest in these unreal, indehiscent days.

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Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

– T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday