Thursday, April 3, 2014

The Familiar Broth of Yes

Shimmering cobwebs in the room where I write. In the distant fields now more grass than snow. Even from a distance one perceives the soft pink of maple buds, most delicate of delicate folds.

And what did she think, years later, walking rainswept cobblestones, hearing by chance the melody he'd composed in her name? Such gorgeous flux in which to recover emptiness! Time given to studying nature's habit of decay is never mistaken.

More than this will not do as less would render the spirit hungry. All morning I study the forest for sign of the fox that last night studied the chicken shed. We know ourselves at the margins, or what we call the margins.

A country in which I do not speak the language would likely foster a helpful communication. In my dreams we were sap and we ran together home. As certain angels agree to manifest, bored as always with the density of bodies.

I am considering writing the new project by hand, or perhaps I should say the new project is studying my hands. Emotional acrobats abound. Joy the color of burlap now, calves tottering across the slippery field.

We look forward in spring to the crap apple blooming, we look forward to whiskey begonias. Scraggly lilac branches shadow over where the old dog loved to sleep. How the heart yearns to no longer yearn!

Some necks were made to be kissed! How happy you make me, both of us stirring the familiar broth of yes

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