One grows tired of grieving, says so to the hemlocks, who gently respond, “Sean you have not yet begun to grieve.” Cardinals remind me the surface is not given to be ignored. How happy it makes me, thinking of the history of narrative, the classic stories that are forgotten now or live as faint hints in Beowulf.
Who is the observer? Mountains appear as the mist thins, the late morning light insisting we relate to distance this way and not another. I have hurt people and I have hurt animals and some nights I still can’t find a way to accept forgiveness. Lines in the sand, lines in our heart.
One day I will no longer need to write these sentences but today is not that day. Your heart is my real home, only you and I know this, only you and I need to. Madonna at a late juncture. She calls it “the Reagan curse” and something inside me throws a fist, I’d forgotten how much pain I was in.
Giving attention to the fir tree I am growing out back, grateful the cosmos allows me to love in this mute but care-filled way. How starfish felt in my hand, how I wanted to tame seagulls, how sometimes I would swim deeper than was allowed, feel the depths and currents, and wonder how far you could go, was there really such a thing as the bottom or the end. Pancakes with blueberries, butter and hot syrup, is there any other heaven. Fionnghuala’s relationship with color.
Was never really a bachelor. Night falling everywhere, wading through darkness. Around noon the mail comes, through the hayloft window I watch Chrisoula get it, then linger to talk to Patricia who is passing by with her little dog. Cleaning up the fallen fence, not bothering to replace it: this this.