What was Hidden for Lifetimes

In a sense, I am a scavenger but in another sense, a treasure seeker. First one into the take-it-or-leave-it shed finds a ceramic turtle that looks angry from the front but from the side is happy and kind. Undressing in darkness, pulling the blankets back, seeing in her what was hidden for lifetimes. A blind man describing moonlight. Taking the old chair apart, carrying the wood to the big pile out in the forest, home to foxes, slowly smokelessly dissolving. An early obsession with glass and other transparencies, as if they modeled a way of being in the world, or was it simply I fell for one of the many spells the Goddess casts. Blue stones missing in New England, a sorrow. Yet Halloween approaches, an early favorite holiday, a promise of some kind that had to do with how God saw and handled evil. Rice noodles with raw eggplant cut very thin. Her voice the most familiar, her shoulders thin and stronger than tree limbs. And now purple, and now this.