Sunday in the Garden

I knew you would want
to talk about Kant or Descartes
or Hume again, how can I 
compete with them?
And this time
it's free will; you tell me
Physics doesn't leave
much room for choice--what if
everything has already been laid out?
                  I reach for a pastry,
taking the beignet
gently in my fingers, letting the sugar glaze
melt a little in the morning sun.
You lean back 
on your elbows and ask
me or the sky, what if it's all
               inevitable?
I polish off
the doughnut, licking
my fingers clean then rolling
up the cuffs of my jeans
That's called determinism, I say
and it haunts me.
You pause on that,
is there any other way?
Then you take my ankles
and swing my legs into your lap.
I lay back, shoulder blades
pressed flat into the grass
beneath the devstating canopy of clouds
and think about agency and freedom:
Chaos, I say
as if it's half a question. Spontaneity,
as if it's something
that I want very much
but am afraid to afraid to ask for.
You're holding my small pink feet
in your hands, everything about you,
unbearbly wistful.
                Which is worse?
Before I think too hard about it, I hear myself
answer: I don't care
as long as there is God.
What I mean
is I want both
freedom and meaning--
that's what we all want
don't we?
The things we can't ever seem
to get our hands on.

6 thoughts on “Sunday in the Garden

  1. I like this clever little inner/outer reflection…for some reason it reminded of the physics experiment where the particle acted differently when it was it was observed vs when it wasn’t being observed…..hmmmmm.

  2. You must most surely know,
    Of the pitter-patter glow
    In the galaxy of stars you wear
    Beneath your neck, I could swear
    That the ring through your nose
    Again most surely shows
    Your cosmological bent,
    Space-time-matter spent
    On destined worded soul,
    Your purpose to console
    Those circling broken rocks,
    Hearts broken by the shocks
    Of love’s unbearable beauty,
    Some impassive cosmic duty
    Playing out its rhythms
    In voids and empty schisms.

    And as for the bitten lip,
    Upon which love’s kiss could slip,
    I see hope’s brightening star
    Closing fast from the great afar,
    In that way which fate arrives
    To ensure that truth survives
    In a little letter ‘J’, say Jay,
    Which a sage once tried to say
    She did not even see or know
    Why it littered the words on show
    As she typed emphatically away
    Of the twin-flame that would burn one day,
    One day.

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