Somewhere between three and four a.m. you entered the room, a mouthful of hot tea. I sat up in my sleeping bag, unsure if you needed to be held or were simply responding to a need of mine, as yet untended. It was cold and I shivered. You sat in the corner, trying out my writing chair, then trailed your hands over the books I am reading, then lifted the candles I keep and turned as if to say, you didn't tell me this . . .
While later I stepped outside, brought up as always by the clear sky and cold air, and most certainly entered - or meant to enter - your own space, where you slept, and I knelt beside you in the inchoate darkness and prayed fervently for your happiness and wordiness, not necessarily in that order.
Well, that's one way to think about it. Another is that I hate walking east now because you are west and there is only so much distance I can stand. Or this: one writes now before one chances to read the other's work, lest the resultant gushing be fatal. I mean, really. Love poems at this juncture?
And yet, and yet. Somewhere near the brook, Jesus stepped out of the woods to remind me to listen to the trees. The crescent moon floated low in the sky, a glimmering fish hook dragging empty seas. How many treasures I have been given and refused to open! How many times must the Lord whisper before at last I go home? The trees creak and sigh, reminding me there are longings deeper than mine and - oddly - making me grateful for my stubborness.
Wind had blown the kid's sleds into the neighbor's yard, so I carried them back. Then I took my clothes off - yes I did that - and did a little dance in the side yard, a kind of unsteady tai chi that included a deep bow to all four directions. By the end I couldn't think I was so cold - and still somewhat sleep-deprived - but you get the point. When I am in my seventies - I promise - I will do a slow naked shuffle in the moonlight for you, decrepit but willing, honoring again our broad and luminous circumference.