Tombs of Old Gods

Shades of blue mostly, sometimes purple. I miss having friends. The weekend passes baking bread and pies, no reason other than to do it. One works without facing a window, preferring a different distraction than the crisp loveliness of hills shared with the late Emily Dickinson. A stone wall behind which towering elm trees stand and in the distance a city whose name must remain a mystery. There is all this loss and all this promise. Preparations for war. The hunger of my childhood becomes a grief, days pass on the therapist's floor, sobbing and moaning, begging God for mercy. So much happens without our knowing! A lifetime of making allowances suddenly explodes into rank hostility, i.e., how could they? Lingering in the shower. The absence of order masquerades as order, so many of us are deceived accordingly. Walking slower now, pausing at the river, endlessly fascinated with horse-sized chunks of ice between which water flows, low tones attesting to the tombs of old gods. Answers abound for those still stuck in the inquiry. Cattails between which deer are visible. Mist where in summer the horses will graze. We make tea, share a cup while asking what else this spring in the garden will we plant. How precious this one life is, even falling apart.