Sappho Yet Again

The night's writing is gone in the morning, and those are the nights I love most. Intention matters though not always the way we want. I see hearts constructed of bluets and straw, strands of horse hair and fragments of baling twine, and in them delicate yellow eggs I long to candle, the better to remember that the center is everywhere. Lilac when you go, okay?

Well, at one a.m. or just after the old dog and I went outside to see the moon, one day beyond full, bright as the world's last television. You can hear the wind where it begins, you can see where the light bends to enter the eye. Reheated tea, friends on the west coast "just saying hey," and waves breaking all night without any sense of a shore line. Healing begins in honesty, as all images emerge from what longs to remember it is whole.

The front yard maple trees were filled with the moon, as I was filled with their hushes and shadows. It was a good dream when you slipped into it, sitting in the corner, asking again would I explain to you death. You can pick your psychology, pick your philosophy, you can pick whatever expression best fits and so what's the worry? Her bathrobe slung over the chair nagged at me, the way a certain trail sometimes does, or the memory of bears.

The thing about being alone with the moon is that it is never just you and the moon. One wakes humming the soundtrack to Annie and so gives attention to the point where orphans entered the narrative. Fall River, Massachusetts, you are never not altogether absent from my thoughts! One sips from the sea when kneeling at the delta, one says everything more clearly when in love.

How I love those places where the rain collects, and the birds come by to bathe, and you feel like reading Sappho yet again. Oh honesty, why must you accept so many masks? When you played Fur Elise everyone in the room grew quiet and I tasted a little of the stillness I am presently allowing to unfurl. Thank Christ for L sounds, and blueberries and geese.