The Christmas tree appears to rust, turns the color of certain fallen leaves anyway, and one remembers then how happy goats are when you throw this or that into their pen. All the ways this life is pine. And the sound of the river is the only sound when that's the sound I am hearing.
"I'm tired of words," she says, by which she means putting them into coherent sentences in an effort to make sense of our relationship which is vexed in no small part by my habit of putting words into coherent sentences without putting a lot of thought into the needs and desires of who's on the receiving end of them which is a form of incoherence which is probably her point come to think of it. This obsession with shoes ends a little shy of visiting Toronto. Listening is a form of giving the apparent other the benefit of the doubt.
There's work and there's work, apparently. When you trace the self backwards you end up at a moment of brief ecstasy made possible by other moments of brief ecstasy, an infinite regression that quickly becomes boring because of how it's at odds with history. Christmas decorations come down but Easter's tend to linger, perhaps because we love Spring so much, or maybe aren't sufficiently enamored yet of rabbits.
Who reads Dickinson and still thinks about a career as a poet has not yet read Dickinson which isn't as big a problem as a certain idiot used to routinely say it was. At last a landing, at last an attic, and at last a second floor. Thank you, Buddha, for bearing this projection of discipline but one is ready now to take it back.
Ascutney, always Ascutney. The pear tree's intention scuttled by apple trees, by some well-intentioned asshole's bad decision to plant it too damn close to them. You want to say sorry to the bees but the bees are so far past that, which is a lesson for when you're ready to go past lessons.
Thus our habit of reading Ecclesiastes every few years, thus our collection of old cookbooks. Making tea in the dark, knowing how, gratefully.