Longing again. I hang one of Fionnghuala's paintings in the hayloft, step back and ask the one who is not here what they think. Bitter cold, the path to the horses icy underfoot, the risk of falling rising.
Healing always relates to the mind. Carpets spread across the floor for warmth and just because. One struggles to paint the hemlocks, a problem of light rather than form.
Ash falls. What is holy becomes neither more nor less so, and this is a clue. Yonis for Yahweh.
Icicles. We experiment with commands: here is where your mouth goes, this is what your hands do. Stale bread stacked on a plate, Jeremiah whistling making french toast.
Neighbors who are nudists. Wanting to like Stafford more than I do, never able to find poems to teach. If there is no actual conflict, then what shall we do with our ideas about resolution?
What is the role of parties now? Railroad spikes. I forgive him at his mother's request and instantly the other grandmother appears and a new lesson arises, having to do with undoing sternness.
Night falls in the desert as well. How at such distances and under such rules shall we manage this peace we were created to create, each on their knees for the other other?
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