The rain in me. A soft sky in me opening, a soft earth in which Emily Dickinson quietly sleeps. A sensibility now. A willingness.
The messy hayloft. Before the sun rises I check traps, thank God the mice outwitted me yet again, and feed the horses. Grim cities of western Massachusetts, sad faces on Main Street. She does not say "good morning" anymore.
How many doors down. What else is coming.
The snow in me, airplane sounds in me. The neighbor's goats in me, and the neighbors. Everything settles a little, grows back. You cut down trees to make life better for the horses and you take up burdens that make you feel alive by reminding you you'll suffer when you die.
What happens after. What is after.
One lugs the zafu back into the house, sits on it and breathes, wondering what they did in a past life to have earned such bland disregard in this one.
Coffee grounds. Idly patting a dozing cat, reading confused texts. What is shared, what is stolen, what is sacred.