Friday, June 25, 2010

The Promise Of Eclipse

A summer walk in which every other step seemed to take one in a new direction. Moon-colored honeysuckle, the promise of eclipse. Turkeys in Ted Porter's field bob their heads, peeking. We are not ever where we believe we are, yet we must be somewhere, or . . . no?

He answered and nobody heard. My brain aches from judging so many choices! Where the hill crests and ancient maple trees appear willing to give up the ghost we must decide either right or left. Black-eyed susans, fatally poisonous to oxen, growing in bunches where elaborate planes of light cast by the setting sun call angels to mind.

Or turn and recall that moment years past when tears were a careful proxy for love. I am peeled open, I have peeled myself open, and now what. Over there merely a memory of phlox. Will a day come when there are no trees?

He wrote, it pleased him, but he could not justify pleasure, and so he never wrote what he wanted to write. Actually, there are not many ways of looking at it - only one. The plastic tube of the low D whistle reminded her of a favorite cat who enjoyed curling up in private places to sleep. Rain, thunder, but not lightening.

Will you or won't you? The demand uttered lost much of its gusto. A glass of water after the kids are asleep, a quick glance out the window, again the yearning for bears. Can't you just say God does not want us to be lonely and leave it at that?

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