Thursday, December 18, 2008

You Were The Risk Gratefully Run

If one can't be too careful, then what can one be? Events rescheduled after one weather-related snowstorm are yet again canceled in the face of another. A voice may be the finest mode of recognition, given our longing for narrative.

A fiddle began its low solemn saw to indicate a change in the night's tenor. We woke, paced, began careful negotiations. Ease was not the objective so much as fresh eggs for boiling.

A new paragraph should not be taken as some new foray into meaning! You have to ask, always, did this really happen or is it just a photograph? A new absurdity, a new plot line for us all.

Yes, in fact, I was the subject of such generosity and no, I have not yet written letters of gratitude and thanks. For the sheep's wool grew dusty and dull as the hours lengthened and over the hills came the salty smell of the sea. So now you try a sentence.

I felt a crazed loss, drinking my morning coffee in the unaccustomed cold. Not Boston, but Albany, that warm donut of a city. In her hand, his felt like warm putty, yet he made her laugh and always had and that was not, in the welter the way it was, insignificant.

The offer was as so often renewed and again politely declined. Of course, memory and history are only sometimes the same. A dream not of wings but of opportunity embraced.

In the age just gone, you were the risk gratefully run. No other equals holds me in such thrall.

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