Wednesday, January 5, 2022

Distances We Could Bridge

The deeper you go into sorrow, the quieter it becomes. There are interior spaces in which there is no self to speak of, only experience. What are your plans for me again?

I take a small cup of tea to the hay loft and sit quietly with the pain, not bearing it but not resisting it either. Trains grinding slowly east, cities coming to. We don't ask to be here and yet here we are.

Letting her sleep. Horses grazing at distances we could bridge if it were necessary. Old ways of sharing no longer an option.

Finding the center of us and not wanting to lose it again. Children know more about suffering than anybody wants to say. Reflected Christmas lights, easy metaphors that lock us into unhelpful narratives.

Maybe I'm not as smart as I think? Boxing up certain categories of book, lugging the boxes into the attic. Questions of helpfulness rest on assumptions of what we are in truth, hence our interest in fictional detectives.

The architecture of one's past. Studying bees. The garden in early winter, her heart.

One limps to a cottage in a land where the law says no lanterns are allowed after the moon rises. These cobbled-together prayers, these poems that smolder and smoke. 

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