We come to know

the form of things

that we are taught from

early on, and let us say

this form is like a cookie jar.

And for a time

we do not know

the finer details of the

stuff meant to be placed

within the vessel though

we sense that it will

be some variation on the

theme of cookies. And

then the years will come

where form will meet with

essence, and each of

us, one way or not, will

choose the cookies for our jars.

So nice the jars

have been to make, so real

they seem, so tidy,

so decorative, predictable,

so ethnic and abiding,

that when it comes to fill

them up with all the mind

can dream of, the process

gets chaotic and the

recipes perplexing. See,

cookies are a mess to

make, some formulas go

wonky, some crumbly here,

some chewy there, some

turn out downright

loathly. It takes some

lonely years of work,

some trial, error,

grit and pluck. It will

demand the fuss it

takes, it sometimes

seems a fool’s pursuit, it

sometimes seems not

worth the fears to

open up, invite within

the substance

one was meant to

hold and share and even

savor. Some cookies are

misunderstood, too

oddly shaped, too big for

jars and then

there comes

a time it seems

when many find it

safe and sound

to take up with

the care and keep of

very fancy cookie jars, though

often so to find within a

sad and sorry

store-bought brand

rationed by procedure.

But then, a few

would carry on

and come to know the

essence that

all forms we build can

barely hold, when

cracked apart, with

loosened lids, that

fade in light, yet

do the job of

placing in the watering

mouths of those

who would not

fail to eat

the presence of a

rarest gift,



wild ingredients warmed

in morning sun

as always



the kind

we spoke of early on

when dreaming of

the wonder we

would someday find

within our


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