Wednesday, May 15, 2013

Uplifting the Unfiltered Dawn

One is grateful for quiet. You meet to talk about one thing - gunwales on a canoe, say - and it is more than that. It is always more. We ate slivered cantaloupe in your car and you urged me reread Yeats. The best lack all conviction, indeed. It is important to see what is being offered. Walk with me? There are things one doesn't talk about - speech defects, say - and then finds one with whom they can. The result is quiet. There are many things we can do in a car, you said smiling, and we did do several. The past only intrudes when we say. The one who writes publicly longs to be found, and is, and then accepts or does not the gathering in. We shared a bottled water, then sloppily - happily - hungrily even - fell into a kiss, a laugh. There is always time. For Yeats and lakes, for awakening and grace, for driving through Vermont, talking. Thus one writes it. There was a clarity in the way you stepped through the water. So much depends upon the ankle! And now. For you a block of solid prose, for me the familiar and uplifting - the unfiltered - dawn.

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