The hills are a horizon, not a jail cell, stop playing a foolish game - what game - the game of pretending you aren't doing this to yourself - I don't understand - you have said it.
Here a sacrament, there a ritual. Everywhere a therapist modeling effective modes of dialogue, demonstrating ways beyond the sucking vortex of death. The cathedral in which we were married creeps out of the city and visits the messy glades and gardens of our falling-down monastery. Sing with me, sister, pray with me. Eat with me, end hunger with me.
The sun rises, ice on the windows is gray, then diamantine, then so bright you have to look away. Between trees, narrow fields of snow through which horses pace, the moonlight lingering all day. You want to keep a secret, you forgot we don't have secrets.
Forgive me, I was focused on the flames, not the Body from which they arose. My hands are empty of everything now, including emptiness. Will it do? These ashes bread, and these tears, wine.
God. You sure can write. Stunningly beautiful.ReplyDelete