Summery advice

At the last hour, this column’s subject got upturned by sound advice.

And later, by the sound, too, of YouTube piano and crickets. And between the commercials, those galaxies and rushing skies, with their tongueless sirens, and the frequent rasping of a lighthouse, and all the unrequited cries of sailors, cacti and colors seldom seen.

“I feel anger,” came the reply to what I’ve asked, to what she thought of the first of the 3-Part Series about Work. All 2, 512 venomous drops of it.

“That obvious?” I pled.

“It’s okay,” she replied after a while.

Three columns about “Work” got upturned by this, by her thoughtful quieting.

Days and days of words, and an eternity of those unsaid, make you see some truths – and recall those that mean, at the moment. Here, this time, her honesty lies in her gentle diversion. Her delightful sleight of hand. And her kindness, too, often, lie there.

Such things, we don’t miss, wide-eyed.

With a bullet hole in my heart, she will tell me about the many miracles of the heart. About how many times it can be hurt and be a heart still.

Throb whole as a rosebud still.

So surely, how can venom follow what can be a requited cry for love?

So, dear undead Sailor, all Students of truth, this, too, must ring part of our truths, whichever way it’s warped: While our heart bleeds, The Nightingale and the Rose can have happy endings, some days. And be meaningful still.

And surely, I must recall, summer was fun. And not frost-bitten and Rose-tree stiff. But yellow, bursting yellow.