Six a.m. with a spade, sweating, the sun a roily smear beyond the far hill which is not the only hill as this is not the only six a.m. but we are trying, we are trying.
We agree to try a couple of cows on the back slope of pasture, and see what happens, and it feels good to make a decision, any decision.
No more sins, no more kneeling.
And yet no more rainbows either and what will afternoon do then?
Skipping rocks across the meadow, the neighbor's pigs watching, and you wonder how far their thoughts go, musing on the spinal afflictions of bipeds maybe, or speculating from whence the inclination to sing to the young comes.
And yet as the light sifted through layers of black maple outside, no rain yet but maybe later, we did kneel, one before the other, together, and we did hold each other after, thinking thoughts that went unshared yet lost no tenderness thereby.
Images of you with your head turned, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, your lips open a little, while I whisper, so softly, a wordless objectless language.
Ferns, unfolding, furls I trail my hand across, learning to go lightly where what loosens is welcome, welcoming.
The one yes, and the other yes, and what is not yes but intimates yes, that yes.
"The hill is always taller than you think" is only true according to what mode of travel you use to ascend it.
There are other ways, but this way is fine, more than fine really.
The particular salt of light, the beat-up shades in motels she declines to visit on my - on anyone's - account anymore.
I no longer covet houses or landscapes, and sex is no longer the hinge on which my attention turns, and only one of the preceding clauses is true, or so I say, being as always inclined to hedging.
Dirt roads, wild mustard, first moose sighting of 2016, and oh, always oh.
Over my shoulder the moon, while beneath and somewhat before me, the garden erupting in clumps, worms twisting at the sudden rush of light and heat.
That black coat, that heel upon which he turns, the dust that rises and settles when he does, and so on and so forth in the many ways our language allows and makes necessary.
Dad and I studied the tool shed but the pitchfork was gone, as if claimed by whoever needed it more, where "whoever" did not include either of us, and also implied some sort of subterfuge alien to Christ.
The river not murmuring in the sense of speaking to me - or you - but still, murmuring.
Chives, bluets, onions, rhubarb, tomatoes, amaranth, bee balm, peonies, clover, and in my mind, always, pumpkins, rows of them between which we walk, no longer given to waiting.
One day you will regret not making a more intimate use of cameras, understanding late but not too late that it captures not the body but the desire that makes the body possible.