Thursday, November 8, 2012

This Beautiful This

A sense that some impulse to seek is dissolved now helpfully pervades the day. Rise, walk to the window, look at the snowy lawn, sit down. Nothing passes because nothing is not and so is time.

Belt folded on the bed, a dozen mostly-read books and the dog curled "into the shape of a button." Thought suddenly no more intrusive than bird song or a waterfall. The old familiar poem no longer making demands of us.

There is no more try again. All morning drinking warmed-over coffee, strangely happy and knowing at last it can last. Naps too.

On the mountain's crest she realized that she no longer experienced life as a photograph. A sigh, a cry, a sweet but lonesome and lingering kiss. And now this, this beautiful this.

Knowing the limits of the body means beginning. You can't hurt me! All I really want is to lift you and not stop.

The old quilt from our wedding now being used to drag leaves to the chickens. What we resist learning is that what is fixable is never worth fixing. Perhaps Heaven might be better understood as a verb?

Grannies don't really die, you know. And home never was either sweet nor there.

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