Wreaths are on the gate and front door, and I’m enjoying writing Christmas/Holiday/Connecting cards.  It’s nostalgic though as for many years the length of the list didn’t change, and now there are huge gaps and pauses to reflect on those who aren’t here.

The full moon was yesterday and the December and June tides are always dramatic, so I check the tide table before I go in and out. I’m awake with awareness of changes in flow as transition swings between the notes of my breath like gauze and this morning’s wrap of fog.

Yesterday a friend sent me these words from Hafiz.  A poet is someone who can pour light into a spoon, then raise it to nourish your beautiful parched holy mouth.

I’ve also seen it translated as pouring light into a cup, but I’m entranced this morning as I sip from a spoon, thinking back over poems I love.

I’m also with these words. 

The birds have vanished into the sky,

And now the last cloud has drained away.

We sit together, the mountain and me,

Until only the mountain remains.

– Li Po

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