Pretense and Code

So it is spring. The man without shoes wanders a little out back, studying drifts of crusty snow shrinking back into matted grass. A crow passes overhead, going north, muttering as he goes, and I mutter too, as I always have, maybe must.

She catches me at odd moments by which I mean when I do not expect to be caught. A bra strap, the M word, and yoga in Lenox. "Caught" is the wrong verb but the right one is - for now - very difficult to say.

Hense pretense and code and misappropriated Hemingway references. How could one not "be in love?" The highway beckons, waterfronts beckon, and beyond all that is the simple clarity that we already have all that can be given.

Sigh. The dog twitches in her sleep and I dread the moment when the house fills with noise and bustle, most of which will ask something of me. The code, so to speak, is not about keeping anyone in particular at a distance but rather protecting me from my fear of snakes.

"My fear of snakes" is itself code, obviously, but for what? Can we meet again and can it this time be different? If she disclosed the M word would I write her a letter (though where to send it after all these years is a mystery)?

Mystery. Maybe. Moose tracks followed together, lost in soft kisses under a canopy of maple.

I wait, fingers poised above the keyboard. For now.