The Gospel when It's No Longer Shared

For a while there were only names, then I became something with a body. Rain in winter, discouraging us from longer walks. How you can still be surprised by crows. My father understood things but failed to communicate the understanding, as if leveling up too quickly on one path, leaving another to wither. Gardens in Montreal where we walked happily, our feet smooth spades that no longer remembered the history of war and the many dead who have seen its end. How hopeful I became, being taught a new way of thinking, and yet here I am with the same sorrow, which is the same old unanswered question about joy. Mostly it's moving words around but sometimes sentences, and always this attentiveness - this stillness - like how you raise a gun when hunting deer. Swans, too, barrel-chested and pure. In the end, I had to give up being a bearer of tidings, good or bad. What is the gospel when it's no longer shared? A man following horses following his daughters. What is no longer porous or transparent? There are no ends to the earth. I am asking: what matters?