Observed by Strangers

I was mistaken about the crocuses, but not about the crows, whose cries echo over the landscape. It is always the second sentence in a paragraph which alerts me to the paragraph's subject. In the body it can be hard to breathe, while in the mind one struggles to say why it is hard to breathe, and yet the body goes on hissing and aching. The work, as such, clarifies, and the clarification is felt as a blessing. Fionnghuala nudges me from a light nap in which I dream I am being observed by strangers and reminds I promised to make lasagna. In the kitchen one listens to their child talk about Easter, which the body hears as "will there ever be another Easter?" to which the soul gently replies "it is always Easter, silly boy." When will we be alone? Sunlight grazes the street as dusk gathers, taking on a briefly copper hue before the deep blue of just before night ensues. There are plans in the mind of God to which I enjoy no access. Can we agree at least on the problem? Like the idea of ghosts, the past disappears, and we are left with pine trees and forsythia bushes in which chickadees gambol. It's possible I try too hard. That slow burn in the center of me: if it's not love, what is it?