When I am eighty– if I get to eighty– the moments of truth, beauty and heart-stirring reality I will recall with powerful ease. The head lines up a manner of crafty collusions pouring through memories and mistakes made in a hazy fight to be right. Where is wisdom in years anymore? How can the sunlight produce such reds and greens and all manner of things that sing, fly and simply be? Why does the pale moon salute itself and run in slow motion across the inky sky when most people do not care to see the celestial race? Because it is. That “being”, that “is”, that “here we are.” Now what? We call on ballerinas and oils and terra cotta gardens fleecing our minds from the feeling of what is. Beauty can do that, but the sleepy birds lining up periously before a storm, or the rattling of old instruments in angry hands, or methods of crying that burst into a spotlit room– these can be the undoing of a soul, too. Herald the callings to have the second to last word.