It clears, the sky. My mother's voice on telephone growing thinner, like a pile of puzzle piece mostly already used. The rocker creaks, skids a bit on the floor when I rise quickly, hearing tears. Between winter and buds on the maple trees. Between loves.
Navy beans, black-eyed peas, ground lamb and last summer's tomatoes, slow-roasted for hours while we sit around the kitchen talking. When was the last time the crucifixion as such mattered to you? The lure of what is illicit, which is merely another distraction. It's hard to read these days but writing does go on apace. Coffee in the barn before dawn, quiet joys that long to be expressed.
Carse's point that a) it does exist and yet b) cannot be expressed, to which assertion I am yet to give consent. Cybersex, which was like so much sex in my early twenties - drifting sadly through empty motions while the other gets off, gets close, gets snuggly. "Where does your mind go?" "To stars over Lake Champlain, to silences on the beaches there recalling me." One goes back to certain letters, reads and rereads them, as if trying to see beyond them to the intention of the author. Goats get loose, spook the horses, all of us running around corralling what's amiss. My thumb on her nipple and other tensions, swelling and ebbing, like the history of Poland.
Three days later the moth on the clapboard is gone, a sadness, a lost image that while it persisted related to resurrection. Old Joy. One fumbles at the door at night, not drunk but not sober, unclear are they inside or out. The hemlocks lean a little, a cardinal flies out of them, and so for a little while longer, it's okay.