Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Seeing New Englandly Alone
Not quite three and the dog and I leave the house, quietly so as not to waken the others. A softness stops me on the stairs: the sound of the brook in Spring freshet stops me. When is the sky not filled with ten thousand stars? When is the maple tree not a response to sun and earth and water? I walk slowly on a rough line mostly east, happier than I can say with the spongy road beneath me. She studies the bayou in a country that terrifies me, and I shoulder what I must to keep looking at it. When you find a resonant language, learn it, and when it directs you to a space beyond language (which it must), set it aside and go. In the photograph, she is looking down at something, aware of her beauty, but sad as well, and you have to choose: one or the other. My feet are cold despite my shoes. The work now is not to place myself anywhere, not to exclude any landscape. I mean, don't covet the relationship and don't enter into it as it is offered, when the offer is merely an extension of your own projected needs. Oh for the one who understands this, and oh for the one has no fear at 3 a.m., and oh for the one beside whom I grow still at last. Desire broke me at the crossroads, so it's come to this: stumbling and muttering a half-remembered prayer: seeing New Englandly alone. We come back slowly, a single star flickering when and where the clouds part. It will rain soon. It will be light soon, too.