Wednesday, December 5, 2012

A Season of You

The moon seems to begin at a low place in the sky. It seems to begin, in time, at a particular place slightly south and due east of the neighbor's house. It's a way of saying what matters. The mind turns where it will and toward what remains. I am saying something about a flower, one I am not allowed to pick, and have been looking at all my life.

Like a niece's letter? One misspells gassho for going on two decades and then wonders what it - what anything - means. As seagulls sail back and forth above the parking lot, day old french fries dangling from their bills. Remember we always said as if when we meant not really? Now and again avoiding hello.

Somewhere near the eleventh sentence you begin a necessary reconstruction. One is shaped not by elocution but by certain sounds that, when uttered, eschew definition. This gold braid, that gold braid. The cat leaped and landed and paused as if to replay it all in her mind. A season of you is now coming to a close.

I don't believe what I profess to believe. One grows tired signing checks, but there is more to it, but what? A river runs through it indeed. One resists the impulse to send yet another letter and that has an emotional - a psychological - effect. This sentence is here simply to put you in the mind of what I did not - because I could not - say.

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