Here are some words about longing. They fall like yellow leaves in the crotch of a birch with two trunks, so that some words appear to stand and others are folded, even torn.
Longing is the green inside us, green as it was, the mercenary fictional. Like goodness, whatever is longed for doesn’t live in nature. The affection for green is like cutting your own skin.
I like it when a poet, speaking of his children, says “I did not know you before you came” and I like it when green is in my dreams. But I’m an old man now. Green is my undoing.
An old Buddhist proverb says: “If we are facing in the right direction, all we have to do is walk.”
Scuffing the leaves…