Taking what’s near

I sat out on the door-sill of the old shed, under the grapevine, to read through the newly arrived book contract, feeling the thrills of hope and desire (that word again) that accompany a new venture.

Ker-thug. A brown leaf, large as a hand, and as gnarled, dropped onto the open pages. And a second. I looked up and saw the remnant grapes, bird-pecked, and shrivelled into currants. The cat threw herself down a few feet away. They all remind me not to cling; that beauty and glory are momentary. They say, Don’t want too much. Have (lightly hold, enjoy, marvel at) what you have already. Be here now.

And look what the honey-man just brought in, here and now, to our kitchen table. Pure gold. A window for a gingerbread cathedral.

cathedral windows


4 responses to “Taking what’s near”

  1. There’s something about doorsills, isn’t there, Pen? How often does it happen that big things/potent conversations take place on the threshold between one space and another, be that the entrance to a familiar room or house, or an unknown experience?