A Slow Clumsy Dance to Celebrate

It's not like I made a decision - "sentences instead of lines" - and yet here we are, twelve or so years later, wading through awkward semantics and grammars. It's sort of like a country rather than a city, or a marriage rather than a wedding, or death rather than a funeral. We know that we know - we can reflect on reflecting - and whatever boon that recursiveness enables, it also enables some nontrivial banes. There is so much for which I want to apologize and yet the time for sorry has passed, hasn't it. There will be no cabin, no clearing in the forest, no mutual slip into the well of shared sleep. Yet after midnight I do go walking in the little village in which I am apparently going to die a stranger and can say with justification that I'm not unhappy. And will that be sufficient after all? One pauses to listen to the river, its spring spate gushing in a darkness that doesn't have to end but will. So I was unlucky, so what? Here where the years become brittle as jerky, I skip a little approaching the front stairs. I do a slow clumsy dance to celebrate the end of another winter. My last? Look, there on the horizon, the yellow moon.