Monday, May 13, 2013

What We Have Forgotten

One braves the cold, the wind coming roughly north and west across the lake. Little whitecaps rock the ducks who for all appearances don't care. In the cattail, redwinged blackbirds call to each other, or warn other birds away perhaps. Projection remains a risk. And the brain does yearn for - and then yield to - complication.

We are what we have forgotten. Sexual standards are perhaps best when left deliberately vague. Hoof prints facing east, another pine tree felled by beavers. She wore a denim jacket, most sacred of all clothing, and in the moment, it mattered. We are always entering the church of total recall, we are always kneeling to honor regret.

Time passes, or seems to, and it amounts to the same thing. One takes a new lover and immediately begins to imagine a newer one. Your sentence is my long weekend. One studies the shoulder and composes a brief essay in its favor. Behind clouds, the moon, and behind the moon, God.

Well, that is one way to see it. I stay up late reading David Bohm and rewriting an old novel and in the morning feel something new enter, something open. Drinking coffee while the kids wade through shallows I talked about canoes with a woman who asked after - shyly but with clarity - was it possible to continue at another time in another setting. One skips rocks - studies the ripples - and considers again the symbols of love. In the wind are voices, many, at least one of which whispered yes.

No comments:

Post a Comment