Tuesday, February 19, 2013

The Weary Traveler, The Dogless Son

Rye bread sold by the pound, lathered with cream cheese. One remembers looking at a steep hill in medieval Europe - the crystalline clarity of blues and greens and whites against the relative absence of soldiers - and thinks, how do I remember that? So much is carried in the barrel of the skull, it is no wonder we are imbalanced.

While earlier, walking where the trail becomes icy, I realized I had lost track of the dog while listening to wind, and in that moment slipped and only just righted myself and a moment later the dog raced by breathless. Yet more correspondence in the face of which one is pleasantly troubled. The light fails and we light candles and something somewhere is happy at last.

We are ready at last to answer the fundamental question. Sneakers, underwear and a bible all thrown together in a corner as if somebody - me? you? - was in a rush. Traffic is always going somewhere or you can see it that way if you want to.

Some books I can no longer read even as my capacity to write flowers - flows - the way bluets in early summer accept the breeze and testify on its behalf. She wants to write about prisms - that particular symbol - though she's not ready to hear about it yet. Sliced tomatoes and thinner-sliced pickles from the cellar help.

He couldn't resist saying hello but didn't stop to talk, which together witnessed the loneliness we all know so well. One observes again the way water freezes, tracing impossible but recognizable blossoms over and across each pane. He died nobly but not easily.

What difference matters most? For a long time we fussed about the answer until at last - like immigrants facing a harbor - saw there was no time and so got on with it. You are that to me and thus I thank you.

Kindness is not a privilege but the expression of it can be. The brook, unhindered by so much snow and ice, beckons as God the weary traveler, the dogless son.

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