Heaven

I can often (sometimes) almost feel it. It’s not a place, not anywhere, not heaven sent or given. Sometimes it’s a soft sticky fig, on the back of the tongue or a color that should be painted but nobody has yet. It’s like the thought of home, a wide ribbon of encircling rings each of them a trick of the light, but you know that light, you know that presence, it’s the smoky herbage of a love beyond the desiring of it. Then again it’s the soft smell of autumnal woods or simply just some noodle soup she makes for you when you’re tired and sick.