Tom mentions seeing a fox, says “better button up the chickens,” which makes me laugh. Starlight in winter, impossible to capture, yet my whole life has been given to trying. There is no such thing as the right word is a way to write poetry. Theories about why this ice storm was not the same as the one in 2008 used as a means to overcome shyness in social settings. At five a.m. in the dark certain lovelinesses appear – diamantine, harmonious, clear – and one is lifted accordingly. Church is this if church is anything? Apparently the end of conflict is closer than I realized. One works through the relationship between John the Baptist and Jesus and realizes they are talking about their own self which, duh. Setting traps finally, and checking traps, and also escaping traps. We salvage what we can with respect to the squash, finish the cabbages, we order seeds and starts. Stephanie brings cider by and we drink it in the fancy thumbprint goblets I find so wonderfully emblematic of my truth. You set up this or that parameter and it works until you find yourself longing to go down on her and suddenly you’d make orphans of the children, burn the fields, salt the ruins. Fionnghuala and I argue about God in front of family and friends and after everyone is like, wow, she’s smarter than you are, which is true, but days later Chrisoula says quietly, “thank you,” knowing what it cost me and why I paid, and I am David then, and then I am David’s Son happily married, raising kids. Opening the barn door in coldest January. Letting go of the reins. Rising.
Imagine the mountains are moving closer, imagine a light in the mountain becoming clearer, imagine no mountain.