Was she exhausted with the upper room, was she bored with Peter's strategies.
One imagines a bitter cup.
We who are children of the same sun, beholden to fortune in ways Feynman elucidated so helpfully.
She teaches me to resist going meta.
Dialogic black holes.
What we're good at in terms of abstraction.
Pretty things we save.
Misunderstandings of the Green Man and other iconography, and the fatigue of trying to explain, over and over, underlying errors.
Simply put, the universe is not contingent on one's awareness of it.
Going back to writers I only partly understood - Maturana, mainly - and trying again.
Cows coming up from the dell in a sentence that wanted mainly to use the word "dell" a certain way.
Early morning walkers, sun in their eyes.
She is sad coming back from the Cape, and in her sorrow is angry, a sort of indiscriminate sense of being wronged, which is familial and frightening.
Rich asks if I'll wait a day to mow, I say yes, and the we talk briefly about who's running for selectman.
This poem being clear it's a poem.
Perhaps learning is actually a form of mutation?
We stop at a roadside farm stand in the valley and buy spinach, a couple bunches of end-of-season rhubarb, and five pounds locally-grown tilapia.