Thursday, June 27, 2013

A Quiet Corner

I drink tea after supper and watch swallows dive and arc below the cloudy sky. Storms are coming, big ones. Earlier I adjusted the gutters. The rhubarb have gone leggy. And two mice are nesting beneath the old boards I always forget to pick up come Spring.

All day I wrote and hated what I wrote and wrote it anyway. There are conversations I long to be a part of, and conversations that exhaust me for no reason. I can't get a good picture of the daisies by the pond and so at last gave up. You spend the afternoon picking ticks off your legs and wonder again about walking so deep and so far.

And yet. I find a quiet corner under the sapling maple whose lower limbs need cutting and study the western sky. Rain is building and C. has asked me to stay close in case the wind picks up. The tea is unsweetened but gentle in my throat. There is a grittiness to my longing that I fear goes unreciprocated.

Oh well. We aren't what we were ten years ago, and certainly not twenty. The thistle in front of L.'s house holds my attention every time I pass. After a while it does rain and I go to the patio to watch. I am home here, in a way, and in a way, not.

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