Yogurt dressings with salad, late in the season, mixed with cilantro and basil and other dried herbs.
Roses falling over, the vase brushed by a cat, the cat basically indifferent.
Dried cosmos in juice glasses on the highest shelf above the sink.
We talk about Vermont, going back there now, is it too late and is there a way, and I say because I have learned it is true "there is always a way."
Shortcomings, shortbread, shorthand, short shorts.
My mother cries describing the light the other day, how she misses my father, even so many years later, and how she doesn't understand beauty but this was beautiful, this was "something else."
New glasses, new look - get it?
Fried potato skins and leftover black coffee, listening to her teach about a consent that reaches beyond yes/no to the power dynamic itself - the river itself - the great seam of the Lord opening in welcome and acceptance.
Deer in the far fields a little after dawn.
My heart with you is a holiday.
The only elegance I can manage is grief, the only joy the joy of not being defeated by loss, which together are a form of suffering, which is not God's Will, which nobody made clear to me until last August.
A lemony sweetness filtering through the barn stairwell, cannabis smoke dissipating, the last duck softly clucking.
And together we are a season of light.
Jeremiah's recently-purchased painting of eggs over easy with three strips of bacon arrives and we prop it up on the counter, studying the kitchen for where it goes best.
Scattering lime over the kitchen compost then using the flathead shovel to scatter the compost in the fenced-in bin I made back in June when the world was different.
What lingers and what does not.
Long talks first, then longer silences, and then the greater deepening.
Oh all praise and glory to Her, whose namelessness is our bond.
Post a Comment