The blackbird the fox dreamt

16559233_10154559799154563_877485149_n-2A fox in the garden below, rolled up, its snout between its legs, napping. So beautiful!

The fox is asleep against a tree covered in ivy. Next to that tree, is a bare tree, and in it sits the blackbird that has been living here for a few weeks. It and I are always on the verge of creating a metaphor for love together. The protagonists, it and I, and the fact that we admire each other across species, reveal the impossibility of love; that we are both dressed in black, reveals the humility that love strikes in one; and finally, the fact that I do not own it and it does not own me, the fact that one is not the warden, and the other the prisoner, the fact that I am not in a birdcage, and it is rationing to me seeds, reveals an expansive love, one in which we are both free, yet utterly in love with each other. Stay in my garden, Mr. Blackbird, until my heart heals, until my words sweeten again, and until I am whole, body, and soul.


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