Snowmelt falling off the rusted tin roof of the neighbor's barn, so prismatic and rhythmic I get wobbly gazing and listening. For whom is the world such a delight? All these thighs opening, all these knees kneeling.
We talk about the middle child en route to Sawyer Farm to pick up beans, rice, corn meal, kale and pork. Blue Bud Lite cans sparkle in the dead maple leaves cramping the road from both sides. I have two hearts, and the second one is yours.
What does an apostrophe do that I can't? Before anyone else is up I lug my books to the living room reading nook and go as deeply as I can into the silence. Buds on the side yard lilac.
Bluets go back and forth between my two hearts! Sophia and I walk quietly out back to study the smaller horse's back legs which appear stiffer than usual. Willow branches out by the river, a softening that is reminiscent of grandmothers.
"Beautifully morose," a student writes, and instantly I know what to embody next. Ice chunks bob going down the river, whitish-blue in the green swells. How when the dogs barked it meant bears were drawing near.
She swallows, sidles, and the moon slides back to its familiar orbit. One grows tired of dreaming and yet the dream goes on, as if dreaming us, which in a sense, it is. Frozen blueberries with yogurt and honey.
The prayer, the passing, the possibility, the peace. Her letter arrives, necessitating changes I both knew and didn't know would help.