Saturday, January 12, 2013

At Least His Raiments

Walking earlier I held tiny icicles in my palm, sharp as shark's teeth, and clear as Tibetan crystal. Each tendril wisp of cloud struck me as Jesus or at least his raiments. One falls to their knees, one writes and one does both at the same time. Meanwhile, the Buddha says relax.

In reference to Ty Cobb we said at the same time, "that's a man!" And yet the winters here are inconsistent. You dream of Paris and wake up remembering Texas, the landscape that went on forever, and made you think of squares. Don't visit and if you do, don't talk.

He says it's all going to be okay. The crucifix cast a long shadow and we're only just now getting out into the light. When I pray I think of you and hope you are happy, whatever that means. Cheddar cheese with carrots and later apple slices dipped in cinnamon and lemons.

The sound of my son laughing breaks my heart, then lifts the pieces up for study. Sunlight reflects off broken glass. Your sermon on the mount is my uptight gym teacher from 1977. I mean a street light and it wasn't glass so much as tears, a lot of them all at once.

So much for the familiar story! We are all in the welter, all of us bells. I leaned against a birch tree and watched them melt, then licked my palms and laughed out loud at the simple pleasures I can never quite bring myself to share with others. This note, as always, must do.

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