Nothing happens, nothing ever happens. We soften together where the road turns. Shallows in which one wades a long time.
At a late juncture, clarity and healing, unearned and unexpected, but a blessing nonetheless. We sit in the sunroom and talk, she is happy and tough, there is nobody else like her in the world. Wind in the hemlocks.
Morning bird song. Crucifixes hand-crafted from sunburnt hay. We are the art we are waiting for.
At the beginning of a long day reminding myself it's okay to be happy. We heal together or not at all, this seems to be a law. Those glass bottles in the hayloft are a promise kept, do you see it now?
The answer to what is pretty, what is fragile, is me. Long drives west, slowing where in spring the moose come close to the road. The heart is an invitation, the heart is a response to another heart.
Putting her in my mouth. Black bear on the trail, briefly both literal and figurative. My many mothers, my many secrets.
Oh so now we're going to turn our attention to pruning hooks and plowshares, gotcha. I didn't mean to hurt you but I hurt you, I must've meant to hurt you.
Post a Comment