Sunlight Falling Westerly and Slant

Sometimes you write just to write. Or are we always the exterior remembering itself? The words are like snowflakes, the sentences like limbs of trees bearing their own cold approximation. When you visit now, I cannot for the life of me sexualize you. We laugh quietly, we try to understand. It's like some veil has fallen or, better, been drawn back in order to reveal . . . what? The other day I limped through the forest dragging a sawed hemlock hoping it would please my youngest daughter. Lungs a hot coal deepening and a sense of failure insisting on its own prerogative. Now and then I'd look up and see sunlight falling westerly and slant through pine trees decorating this nineteenth century sheep farm. You said "apple" once and I listened, said "quartz" once and I traveled. Beyond that I'm just doing what's apparently given me to do. What else? At a distance, my mother watches, alternately confused and scared. Further yet, angels worry their unbreakable bows. You know. And know you know.