Sunday, August 1, 2021

On the Coffin Lid

Can we agree we lied. Reading eighteenth century recipes, adapting them, wondering what those cooking in that era would've had to say about our adaptations, our modes. 

Morning passes. The new compost station is more colorful than the others. Hacking away at the raspberry bushes to make room. I pass, too.

Apple seeds. Misrepresentations of motive that hurt us. One's study of dolmens - the first stage of the study at least - ends. A sound the earth makes when landing on the coffin lid. Love.

The post office on Saturday morning. Rosary prayers in a side yard lawn chair at dusk, happy in a way that isn't easily conveyed in language. Drying strawberries.

Spice rack envy. A history of the human race from the perspective of male genitalia or do I repeat myself. Teachers who sustain you for one part of the journey. Gazing east off Mount Ascutney. Long roads making sense now.

Those women at the cross showing all of us the cross. 

No comments:

Post a Comment