Thursday, July 10, 2014

Like Mahogany Angels

How imprecise our language is - languishing meaning really - when one gives attention to it. Purple loosestrife and chicory on the road to Vermont (and memories of driving to Syracuse two decades ago, writing the first of the turtle poems for you). While earlier yet, two deer watched the dog and I come back down Sam Hill Road just after six, then leaped away like mahogany angels. I received your letter and owe you a call.

Is that right? We spent more time than expected in the used bookstore, bulking up our gardening shelf, and just in general slowing down into happiness. Iced tea, organic grapes, and a good sourdough with lettuce. At the top of any hill one turns, one descends.

One tries mightily - all day off and on - but cannot find the boundaries of awareness. Moose crossing indeed! We followed one of the old trails all the way to a swimming hole that was smaller than I remembered but still a joy to swim in. How slim a trout can appear when lingering in rocky shallows at day's end (at the end of shadows).

I mean wedding rings, attic offices in which to write long narrative poems, kidnapped journalists, goslings chattering in open fields, crisp plums dipped in syrup, and the last of last year's blueberry wine finished at midnight on a blanket beneath the Milky Way. Notes for later is a good sign, or good enough. Jesus points out imperfections in the moon I cannot see but know are there. Coffee for the drive home, okay?

One pushes past the surface - the shallows, say - in order to make contact with underlying structures, and beyond even that to foundations, to ground - and keeps going. A moral imperative implicit in mycology? Suddenly - sun in my eyes, dog panting nearby - it is all so clear, all so right. What I mean is, you fold your umbrella, and it stops raining, just like that.

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