From high up in the maple trees, dying from decades of road salt, dead branches whistle down in high hard winds. A casket is a secret not a resting place, as this poem is a promise not to close until you're ready.
One yearns to climb Ascutney today, yet knows doing so poses complications to the family dynamic (as all travel plans must), and so refrains. Sunlight melts snow that fell near dawn. All our hearts are cleared of ruin.
In what church - under whose tutelage - did I learn not to trust the body's joy? The side yard lilac bush - which last year did not bloom - nearly reaches the second story. Yet another pair of shoes slides into a state of disrepair from which they cannot be saved.
And all Creation a gift.
Whatever is lawful, whatever is blessed, whatever it is. One can read too much into anything as the world is forever offering itself as a text to be constructed, deconstructed and constructed yet again. "Soon," whispers the Lord, sounding like He means it for once.
We wait until late afternoon to walk, agreeing the light on the river is more pleasing then. We are one but not the same, and we do hurt each other, and only we can heal us. Snow on the forsythia, your name on my tongue.
Some of it makes no sense, and yet remains given unto us, as if the lesson were not intended to be understood in traditional ways. The artwork of children, the ongoing betrayal of decades-old vows.
What ends, what never ends.
This and that.
And you: always you.