Thursday, February 6, 2020
Something Glad in Me
God questions and the practice one must sustain in order to ask them. I remember as a child feeling frightened a lot and going to the window in order to glimpse chickadees, who even then were a comfort. The moon fades quickly as if mocking our confusion about its shifting location. Sky without end, earth a bevy of limits. She insists on buying me dinner so we stop at Dad's favorite diner and eat quickly at the counter, as I am hungry mostly to be home with you. In what way and to whom do the many lakes in our shared narrative give up their secrets? Inside of each of us there is a text that longs to tell itself to other texts, to be enfolded with the many sentences, thematicized, anthologized. Sunday forever between us. The puzzle begins whole, else it could not later appear in pieces. Whatever happened is over now. Something glad in me sings, something crystal catches the sun.