Snow squalls in early May. Inside, outside. The thing about witches, they understand both hunger and how to eat. A little blue.
Jesus weeps where the wetlands opens into pine forest, shadows one never reaches the end of. Near supper time the barn grows quiet and still, and I lay down on bales of hay and close my eyes. Some of what passes for prayer may be prayer, but more it's just the brain unspooling in pictures and words. You look in the mirror and what do you see?
The sky pulls back, clouds rush in. As a child there was this strange relationship to trains, one that has survived into adulthood, evidence if evidence is needed of past lives. Dan points to the dulcimer and asks do I want him to repair it and the silence - brief, intense, pregnant - speaks volumes in answer. Selah.
Want. As the course points out, we are built to give thanks, and nothing else becomes us. Boxes of apples in the hay loft, potatoes and onions. The Kiss tie I wore to prom in 1983, drunk and happy, though Steve died two weeks later of cancer. The history of baseball, slavery, Gatling guns, nations. I am here for you, and all that you offer.
Remember when we quarreled? I've got crucifixion on my mind again, I've got these nails I never know what to do with.