The River Passing By

All the ways we can say yes.

Do more than make lists.

Bamboo wind chimes.

Snow flurries.

Between A minor and E minor, back and forth, so much happening in the way you make your body make a sound.

Maybe it works out, maybe it doesn't.

Her head on my shoulder, the river passing us by in piney summer, eternally

Flathead shovels, spades.

Rooster cries before light, the world effectively striated.

We don't do anything by ourselves - we are always in relationship, always holding one end of the cosmic blanket, folding and folding and folding.

Hash marks.

We double the recipe for goulash, eat it with dark beer by candlelight, and after Chris and I do a half-assed accoustic set, trading guitar and banjo, everyone singing along, down in the easy chair, applauding after, together a happiness I can just barely manage.  

Paths through fallen snow.

Tracks of juncos.

Beams of light coming up the river, or seeming to, the horses whinnying together for hay, and half a dozen crows perched in the hemlocks, either making or mocking a study of death.

Say sorry more.

He was impressed I knew what a stave was, often brought in books to share, including Robert Burton's The Anatomy of Melancholy, which, I was sixteen in Latin I and what the fuck.

Piss-smelling hallways it seemed you'd never reach the ends of.

Mountains of you, meadows of you.

Inviolate queens abound in you, all of them done with royalty.