My Blanket In Ancestral Snow

Blush of clover ends distance and She is here. This is the hill where I first wrote a line for you alone, love. We unlock the chest we have been carrying all these many lifetimes and it is empty of everything but the idea that we have to suffer. Oh how many times I have wished I could climb the cross instead of passing it by. We go on the way we do, don't we?

I see you in a backwoods diner drinking coffee, telling me how sad the waitress is despite her smile, while outside it snows, and I am grateful as always for the men who taught me how to handle bad roads because all I want - all I have ever wanted - is to get you home safely. How much I have missed while studying the ocean for signs of land! Magic yet again throws down its clutch of sterile seeds. We have to enter the spiral when it opens, we have to ascend all the way up. You are my door, my blanket in ancestral snow and would you catch the tears I cry in secret remembering old dogs because there are so many, so so many . . .

Namelessness abounds. I stumble past flowers I can't bear to cut, fighting the blue light that near my heart now threatens rain. Lakes in New York where we whispered kissing so our voices wouldn't carry. Oh Dan, there were times I would have fallen, there were times I only wanted to be held. Tell me you love me because what else can one say now?

Little poems to pass the time, like fireflies in darkness saying here I am, I am here. Certain fields I am always crossing, certain tractors are always breaking down, and you were always there, you were always lifting me, saying "just a little further, just a little further." What hidden abattoir must I now bring beams of light into? Rescuers are always losing something. I beckon, I put it into words, it's all I know and it's not enough anymore, is it.