Standing near the hemlocks near midnight, shivering star-gazing. Names you forget, names you will not, ever.
Even empty-handed. Even broken-hearted.
Opening the barn door at five a.m., the scent of skunk pervasive and moist, going slowly to avoid a confrontration. Dogs barking on the far side of the river. Cold breezes stirring flakes of snow across dark ice at the driveway’s edge. This, too, is love.
Gathering baling twine to be recycled. Suddenly there are all these ways of referring to the moon, as if the heart were a library the mind by necessity visits to study its name and function.
An emphasis on shades of blue that feels inspired, cosmic, pertaining to what we mean when we say the word “God” and are appeased.
Sifting sugar to make frosting for Fionnghuala’s birthday cake which, days later, remains only partially-eaten.
Waking early to pray and write, is there any other life.
It is possible to be in error, I have gazed into the mind which errs, I have seen the root of the problem, I am living the inquiry which resolves it.
Wind wracking the house, electricity out, winter tapping the bones in me with ice.
More Dylan please, more Dickinson. More waking early to talk in the kitchen over tea about what is broken and can be healed and what is broken and will never be.
Holding hands in bed for a moment, reminders we are not alone, will never be again. Oh Christ let me treasure only what is treasurable.