Doxology

I arrived home. Wearied, anxious. Having realized how much work still lay before me this evening. But on the steps were two wooden parcels. Well, cardboard boxes. But they made me feel like parcels would. Books! I cracked the spine of one, purely for the sound. Frivolously, not because I intended to read it. I made myself a salad, sneaking a taste of the red pepper. And I was surprised by the snap, the sweetness. I thought of the farmer with whom I’d discussed the varieties of sweet peppers he grew before buying two, one of each. I ate the salad and read on the porch while a storm rolled in. Flat on my stomach, feet hoisted behind my head. Through the table legs I saw my neighbor’s trousers swinging in the wind, giddy with newfound freedom.  The book I was reading quoted a Dickinson poem

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—
Success in Cirrcuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightening to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind—

and I reveled in the serendipity. A poem about lightning just as it flashed. What gift.

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