Late Summer's Night

Rian has huckleberry wine, an amber gleam, in a deep goblet at my elbow.

For inexplicable reasons, Someone Else enjoys feeding Rian alcohol. I know not why. Rian sober is no less giddy than Rian tipsy. Rian tipsy is no less introspective than Rian sober. The world tilts, but the world does not change.

There is a Bent Man, trying in vain to clean up after his canine, as the dog, no spring chicken either, runs in circles wrapping his leash about Rian's sycamore.

Rian laughs silently from the porch as the man swears and stumlbes. I would offern him a drink, yes, but he looks as though he might swear at the gift.

When I am tipsy - for Rian is never DRUNK - I do admittedly dream about things I do not allow myself to touch when I am sober.

How I long to burst this skin and float free, merge with something more, something greater, envelope and be enveloped. The Fool and Fitz, no boundaries. The Monk and his meditation. The Yogini and her body. The Vulcan mind meld!

To love and be loved and share that passion in an endless circle.

Is this, Rian wonders, w hat some Seek in a god?