Tuesday, April 2, 2013

I Often Stumble

And so at last the twenty sentences become what they have always wanted to be: a love letter to her: the red bird of my heart. Welcome to the country of turtles. And: twenty sentences are not enough.

Without my glasses, the moon has a distinctly blue outline, and the stars too are blue, and I often stumble for all my looking up. Rain clouds pass overhead in bunches. In the distance - west - the train whistles, guttural and sustained - on old tracks abutting the river.

You. Always you.

He writes happily in the little room where he sleeps alone, never beneath the covers, usually fully clothed. Sentence after sentence, the way as a child he moved little stones and sticks around in the dirt outside the barn, telling himself stories. Think about your titles more, consider them daffodils that spring from a vital bulb, not summations, not street signs. And yes: asking. Always ask.

I stop by the pines where months ago I mentioned the sweet sound of the wind there and you thanked me and so now they are our pines. This is how my life - how any life - becomes holy. When she apologized for the way she had talked about Jesus he thought: who?

I caught glimpses of you in the fall, mostly while teaching Dickinson. "Might I but moor - tonight - /in  thee!" Though I do not long anymore for wild nights so much as quiet mornings of prayer and writing, and a long walk after, holding your hand while the wind blows in off the lake.

I took you with me this morning, showed you the maple trees budding despite the cold, and ask again: my darling: what else can I give you?

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