Sunday, June 9, 2013

Emily Dickinson Grins

Sunlight on the fence. Still shadows slowly rising. Phlox all over or so it seems. I misplaced my glasses and have to settle for blurs.

The horse turns its back. At night rabbits come out and nibble the clover near the garden's edge. Feta cheese is best, I think, though cheddar works well, too. I wrote you a long letter about sourdough but never sent it because of, well, logistics.

Cats take over the writing chair. Absent spectacles means I type by feel. We scaled the trout, Jer and I, and fried it over an open fire with lots of onion and butter. The dead oblige us with recipes.

The dead curl into braids of smoke and float overhead like clouds. I bought the wrong canoe because I got distracted by a woman. Be careful, dear, what you believe! I have so many letters to write and so little time!

And no way to see what I say? Life always resembled a puzzle to which the necessary key had been withheld. Jesus waits patiently. Emily Dickinson grins near the hedge, saying one more sentence, written just so.

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