One craves ballast.
And is wrong about the moon.
Walking as the sun rises, one's thoughts turn to what is when both past and future are accepted as illusions.
Killdeer pass, then crows.
A day is never as long as when you are silent in it.
Great bales of hay torn at by does as sunlight lit the horizon.
Turtles remind me of the need to be held that hides itself beneath a shell.
The greater intimacy is the creation of shared space in which touching of any kind falls so quiet and naturally one barely notices (and yet cannot - ever after - live without it).
Sunlight on the horse's haunch.
Like that, but sustained, through dusk and then darkness, through night.
Other longings include: to bring you tea, buy you a book, watch you order a muffin, drive in the rain, sit by an open fire, get you a sweatshirt when it's cold.
If fewer than twenty sentences arrive, can I stop?
There is always another curve in the road, and always another road.
In the afternoon, thoughts of death press crazy against me, and I push them away, angry and desperate.
I am not fluent in the language of need.
The thought of you opening, and slow afternoons that begin at your shoulder . . .
Yet biking I thought of nothing but how the heart strains, a blunt muscle swollen behind ribs.
And all of you.