Thursday, June 26, 2008

How I Know

There where the minnows dart, where the light is nearly red. On the causeway daisies, tough leggy stems. Ox eyes ox eyes, also wild strawberries. The only turtle sliding almost unnoticed back into the brown pond. First day without rain in what. Maybe a week, maybe more. We slept through the a.m. bird song, dreaming of lembas.

The trail covered with ivy except near the brook. Scant deer sign (but then one always expects more), though again, bear sightings. A branch crashed in the forest to our left and we squinted for the telltale black. And later we went back for a necessary rescue, while at home the rice boiled and kale and onions simmered in oil.

This life, that life . . . it's how you breathe that matters. "I want you to imagine your body is slowly filling with mud." I'm going in with my clothes on, ha ha. You leap, you extend, you lunge. For how many days running now have I gone without the stars.

Stars, tears . . . "tell me a poem." Wrap my arms around you love, that's how I know I'm home.

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