I Imagine Sweet Time

So great, the Taung child died because an eagle held it to the ground and tore its eyes out, taking, I imagine, sweet time. The hemlocks are a nontrivial reason why I'm back in therapy. Prayer like how ice melts. Too cold to do more than throw hay to the horses, check their water every couple hours. The kids plan a trip to Iceland without us, apparently for real. We come to an agreement about giving away a certain table of which I am fond, we let a lot go now, including letting go. I remember seeing moose tracks and following them - as if lifetimes later - seeing where it had paused and ripped leaves from the trees. Funny what we grieve. Sometimes I'm amazed, sometimes stunned, sometimes I can barely remember to say "thank you." We make Gods out of attention and fear and what we see. Ken Wilber isn't wrong, I guess, but I don't need to read him anymore. Thérèse writing "Don't imagine I am overwhelmed with consolations." Clocks grind our bones, the calendar adds another layer to our flesh. Stop me if you heard this but not really - I need you to need me still.