Moving through time…
It’s a grey and foggy day, down here by the Willimantic. No traffic on the bridge, no one walking back into the thickets by the river. I’m fortunate that the water’s cold, even this winter when we’ve had no snow and the raging theories of climate change continue to rattle people’s consciousness. Maybe someone will listen. Maybe someone will act.
My shelter is invisible to others. They think I have a hut somewhere, that I’m sitting down in the tall grasses just to watch the ducks or to catch sight of a passing fish. Nothing more to add. I’ve put all the poems in the fire. They burn well, warm the night, stir the clouds, send out signals to the young. Keep your thoughts. Record the passing and pass on the ephemeral. Anyway, I’ve found a new nest down here, lined with thoughts and dreams. Sometimes the rain fills it, spilling silver and gold onto the dirt. Someone might come along before dusk. Walking slowly along the path. It’s narrow, there’s no room to falter. The water is near. Cold tonight, rippling through our veins.
January 1, 2022
The din of conversations streaming by, tires on wet pavement, whistles above the trees, a softening of color, the sky is grey, the sky is gentle blue. It’s time to head up to the café, share a table with someone, ask for hot black tea and a folded roll shining on the plate. It’s a ways to the café, but the wind is calm this morning and I’ll take the canoe as far as I can, then the old blue bike up the road, down the road. I’m dreaming conversations now, words simmering in my veins, hiding in my pockets, curling up in the warm folds of my scarf, knit with milkweed floss and sunlight. The river is sweet today, singing along, the fish somewhere out of sight, the ducks still among the grasses. There’s no ice here, no snow. It’s been raining all month, perfume of melting glaciers, perfume of worry and concern, perfume of images left beside the bed, left beside the fire, the door…the windows are now open so wide they escape, images out in the air, fleeing, flying, they aren’t here anymore, they’ve gone across the Atlantic to see if any fragments remain over there, under there, up where the ice has caught fire and the birds are growing inordinately wild wings to take them out of here, out of this noxious atmosphere, into dreamland and pure-land, into a space made for peace and harmony, where the light is clear and the evening brings us all together.
January 14, 2022
J’écris ce soir pour tirer du néant le soleil de la mort, pour attirer les conséquences désastreuses des grands voyages de l’âme, pour empêcher que tout soit coincé entre le jour qui arrive et celui qui l’a précédé, j’écris pour ouvrir la plaie, pour célébrer le corps exaltant, pour réduire au silence les bagarres de l’esprit, pour inviter quelque chose de difficile à faire son nid dans mon âme, pour empêcher que tout soit une ligne de plus dans un dessin méconnu, j’écris pour établir les profondeurs où toute pensée se noiera, j’écris pour tordre l’arbre magique, pour tirer sur la pierre qui roule hors de contrôle, pour mettre des bouches de bouleaux dans un grand tas de silence, pour risquer le feu qui léchera mon cou, brûlera ma langue, rongera mon ventre, j’écris pour te suivre, présence dont il n’y aura jamais de nom, pour suivre cet indicible et obscur mouvement du corps face à la disparition, face à la confusion cosmique, face aux désastres répétés, aux inondations du territoire humain, aux incendies du cœur qui ne cesse de veiller sur la perte, la ruine, l’indigence, j’écris pour participer à la douleur, pour offrir la main aux autres, pour éviter que tout se désintègre, que les masques tombent sur des braises bleues, sur l’explosion de toute matière, pour rejoindre ce que nous perdons au moment de la naissance, cette intuition des crises à venir, cet instinct de survie qui appartient au sang et aux muscles involontaires, pour retrouver le moment qui précède la naissance, le point nul de toute rencontre humaine, l’instant où tout bascule et le corps redevient passage, déchirure et geste.
La nuit est dense, l’obscurité longue. L’hiver nous apporte des heures de lumière intense, de méditation profonde. Chaque soir nous inventons encore une fois la renaissance du monde. La neige, la glace, tout ce qui gèle et tombe du ciel, tout ce qui est glissant et dur, tout ce qui rend la vie quotidienne difficile nous accompagne pendant quatre longs mois, notre saison de Perséphone, du rameau perdu, de la stérilité et de la perte, mais après le solstice nous retrouvons quelque chose de vert au creux de l’âme, dans les fissures produites par les vents féroces de janvier, juste au moment où tout est perdu, où nous n’avons plus d’espoir, où le chêne et l’érable sont des sentinelles raides et mystérieuses qui bougent par des nuits de froidure extrême, laissant au matin des traces de feuilles éblouissantes, de rameaux luisants et purs, d’ombres bleues et mauves sur la surface des champs, dans les trous du renard, à travers le ciel couvert, dans les rayons du soleil soudainement refécondé par le passage de quelque chose de frais et de fragile, par des ailes de granit libérées, par des ailes de mica en révolution. J’écris ce soir pour retrouver la source du regard, pour célébrer l’âme de l’artiste, la folie de vouloir aimer, de vouloir toucher le monde sans intermédiaires, la nécessité de continuer malgré tout ce qui nous empêche de vivre sans douleur, malgré tout obstacle émotionnel ou spirituel, malgré la monotonie et les obligations nombreuses et les échecs inévitables, malgré le désespoir qui nous accompagne quand nous voyons que les autres subissent des épreuves inimaginables, malgré notre grande impuissance et notre manque de courage, malgré tout, dans la simplicité et la foi de notre condition humaine, nous écrivons tous et toutes pour apprendre à vivre, pour ne pas céder au néant, pour vouloir continuer, pour aimer et célébrer ce qui nous rend vulnérables et ce qui nous permet de vivre, en toute simplicité d’esprit en gardant l’espoir d’un monde meilleur.
Le 28 janvier 2022
Je viens de parler avec l’ermite qui m’a raconté l’histoire de la noyée. Il semble qu’une amie de sa sœur soit tombée dans la rivière Willimantic pendant la nuit de vendredi à samedi. La neige est encore très épaisse sur les rives. Ici et là le soleil a créé des plaques de glace bleu clair. Mais comment reconstruire ce qui s’est passé ? Personne n’a rien vu. Il faut inventer ou faire face à la folie. Ariane rêvait. Elle suivait le murmure des voix inconnues en essayant de traverser la rivière sans entrer dans l’eau. Elle portait des feuilles de chêne, des pages d’un livre trouvé dans la rue près du café. Elle en a parlé avec la sœur. Une ombre est passée près d’elle….celle de la lune noire que personne ne voit sauf par les nuits de neige extrême au moment où tout se dissout et la mémoire est suspendue….Les feuilles de chêne s’embrasaient au moment de son passage; les pages du livre pesaient sur son corps frêle. Le lendemain matin, on a retrouvé une des pages sur laquelle ces mots :
« Je ne vois plus que des cristaux détachés / et tu me dis que tout ce silence autour de nous / n’est que rêve et illusion ».
L’ermite est venu au café vers six heures. Il a passé une nuit blanche sur la petite île de la rivière Willimantic après avoir reçu les nouvelles de son amie. Je lui ai demandé s’il avait un bouquet pour elle. Il m’a répondu, « On n’offre pas des fleurs à l’Inconsolable ».
Le 3 février 2022
It’s hard to concentrate this afternoon. The river is still cold, a skim of ice along the edges. Trees waiting, grasses waiting, fish and birds waiting. People waiting also, listening to the harsh winds blowing in from the east, listening to the percussive repetitions, followed by flames. Listening to voices, cries, moans, outrage and sorrow, love and anger. The world is not green anymore. It’s swaying in the brittle brown wind. But the river is still cold, a skim of ice along the edges. While we wait with the trees, with the grasses, the fish, birds, the clouds, the granular strokes of sun coming down so quickly softly, sparkling on skin, we’ll watch for people coming over the hills, speaking a new tongue, drawing with them the dove’s children, the imperceptible blossoms of the language of love. A courageous procession, not always seen clearly. No baskets, no bags, no chests, just arms filled with the fire of forgiveness and the strength of the trees. Speaking and singing in the blue-rose twilight, in the turquoise clear dawn.
March 4, 2022
There’s muttering down by the shore. I heard the voices clearly even though the pounding rain mutes the words, distorts the pauses between sentences. But it’s not a poem or a prayer. It’s not a person speaking to herself. It’s the rocks communicating to each other, to the sky, the water, the dust, the fires burning thousands of miles away. It’s the rocks speaking about destruction, about the loss of compassion, about hatred and rage. There’s no blood left on the shore. It has dissolved the night scarlet, rendered the noon skies livid. The rocks continue murmuring, muttering, at times raising their voices to a fine-tuned humming that sounds like the wild song of winter, the dance of the vernal equinox, the spinning of the full moon. I’ll wait here awhile, over by the spruce. There’s no one else around. I might try to sing to the rocks, even though my voice is so frail, so hollow. Our song will carry the night away, gild the soul with spruce resin and finely ground mica, our song will staunch the blood flowing onto the ground so many thousand miles away.
March 17, 2022
Moving back into time, shifting focus. It’s autumn again and Lac Massawippi is smooth and cool. The border is open, there is no pandemic, no war in Ukraine, no cauldron of sorrow and despair. The lake is pure this evening. Sitting by time, sitting by the streaking fish, seen as clouds of light under the water. Sitting while the trees light the sun, pull in the moon and stars, while Québec glows in the evening dusk, in the soft and magical haze of love.
April 13, 2022
L’ermite a trouvé une feuille sous les buissons près de la rivière sur laquelle quelqu’un a écrit un poème dont la plupart des vers ont été raturés. Il lisait lentement, en se demandant de qui ces trois vers parlaient:
Restent le silence ombrageux de tes derniers mots
ton cri qui coule à travers nos bouches sèches
l’ardeur de ton corps dans nos bras épuisés et tremblants.
Le 24 avril 2022
Dreaming again, trying to find the threads, the filaments, the slender spaces between memories, words, hands and lips. It’s warm out today, the sky all wild grey and folding over and over. Down by the Willimantic the birds are moving rocks, twigs, leaves. They’re constructing something in the far corner of the island. Uncertain identities. Impossible movements. I’ll take the rocks from someone’s building site; they’ll never know. Everything blasted, torn up, tossed around. It’s granite and quartz, mica and who can label what comes from the depths of the Earth. I’ll put soft light on the rocks, let them sway out of focus, regain territory, leave this divided space. Tonight others will come. No traces, no prints, no scents. The birds are capricious today. They’re not building nests. I think they’re reading again, pitching poems into the water, pulling out stories and fables, scouring the river banks for music. Someone’s walking along the island now. Disappear. Hold your breath. Dreaming again, trying to find the threads, the filaments, the splendor spaces between what we do and what we feel, how we recreate what was half-present, almost-here, slipping into the sun or the moon or some other body that no one has found yet. We’re by ourselves again. The someone has passed by. A few footprints that the wind will erase. The birds followed the someone closely, silent, insistent. Guarding the river banks. There is no path, no way to come and go easily. The someone was trying to find the ruts of an old path, but there aren’t any. Flying, swimming, dreaming….the only way we move around here, holding our breath or singing. The someone will never know, unless a stray poem or melody happens to float by on the early evening wind.
June 2, 2022
L’ermite est parti encore une fois. Il a passé la nuit près de la rivière Willimantic. Il pensait au temps avant les grandes neiges. Il lisait ses cahiers en arrachant des pages sans importance. Le feu grandissait, la chaleur fumeuse rendait la nuit moins froide. On lui a reproché ses silences; il a beau expliqué qu’un ermite ne parle pas souvent, qu’il préfère la nuit cristalline près de la rivière à la chaleur du café, qu’il aime les autres, que le silence ne détruit pas la solidarité. Il écrivait des poèmes dans la simplicité de sa foi et la nécessité de son cœur avide d’un absolu d’amour et de paix.
Le 3 juin 2022
And today in the windy sun that pulls autumn to spring, summer to the lost veins of night, the hermit watches the dead pass by. They are cool and fleet, their blood is like stars, shining all night, burrowing into the dawn with the sweet sigh of young wheat. The dead have many faces, many voices, their forms are elegant and pure. They speak with the west wind crossing the burning continent, the north wind from the still frozen light above, the east wind from the dark green Atlantic, the south wind bringing in the coral flames of the long Caribbean night. They are lost in dreaming, their bodies shine with apple blossoms and grass pollen. They have changed their names to protect the day, calm the night, relieve the long suffering that attended their passing. As they pass the island in the Willimantic where the hermit lives, they leave a trail of feathers and fleece, musical and daunting to decode, their footsteps twinkle like children’s shoes, flashing and gleaming as they cross and cross again, day and night, night and day, unfolding and forgiving what has been given and what has been taken away.
June 18, 2022
Down on the shore yesterday with the hermit. Neither one of us wanted to talk about the wars, the famines, the droughts, the state of the country or of the world. Dazzling photos of of outer space have captured people’s imagination recently. The birth of stars. Passage into something beyond existence. Not a meeting ground, not a void. The mind wanders, as if it had already left the body, attempted the flight, left this planet.
Someone asked if the hermit has a name. Of course. So do I, but it’s not mine. It varies, it depends, it sings off-key, on-tune. Someone gave me a name. I’ve kept a certain register, a certain key, a particular tone. As the hermit has kept an echo of the name given to him.
We didn’t talk about poetry…the Willimantic keeps most poems hidden. Spring thaw reveals a few pages. From time to time the ducks stir up the bottom, mud and paper, tender plants, forgotten words.
A quiet afternoon. The sea was cold, the wind still. Fading into the light. Pulling the stars closer and closer. A word, a phrase, the night hovers, and we depart.
July 14, 2022
Milky skies, dew on parched ground. The mind wanders. The hermit left yesterday, following the Willimantic. I asked him where he was heading. Nowhere special. Somewhere. Not here. Another place. He’s not easy to engage in conversation. Water rippling behind him. I wonder if he sees something different, not the river at all, perhaps a cove from his childhood, or a fragmented image from a recent dream.
August 5, 2020
I spoke with the old people last night, down by the Willimantic. They were just floating along, quietly, steadily making their way down the river. Sparkling water, smooth sky. The hermit was nowhere to be seen. I asked them where he had gone. Somewhere to the north, or maybe to the east. Out on the snowfields, out on the ocean. Vast expanses, almost entirely preserved in the mind, shimmering and glittering, undulating whenever anyone spoke, even hundreds of miles away.
I wondered why the old people hadn’t gone with them. The café is really no great attraction. A cappuccino, a beet green salad, a hint of music somewhere close-by. Maybe they just wanted to see what people were up to; they had lingered far too long at the edge of the woods. It’s something we don’t talk about. Dying and absence, repositioning and forgetting. They’re humming along now so quickly that all I see are blurring colors, a streak of white hair, shining teeth, a smile floating above, and I wonder if the hermit will be back this evening. Or if I will stay here hour after hour, waiting the fires, the snows, the rains that may never return.
August 21, 2022
L’ermite a passé tout l’après-midi hier dans son jardin. La chaleur de septembre lui est bien précieuse. Il a retrouvé les feuilles laissées par des visiteurs…des pages éblouissantes, des pages grises et mornes, des pages simples et franches, des pages aux marges solaires, aux marges lunaires. Il comprend maintenant que l’expression du monde vient des coins qu’on a déjà vus mais pas vraiment contemplés ou regardés de près.
Pages du cahier, relus le 6 septembre 2022
From a very old photo in black and white. Early spring in Québec, on the road down from the Abby. Sky, water, snow, birch, the remains of a fence.
La parole des dieux de la terre, des dieux antiques qui ne révèlent que le mystère qui nous unit. Aucun signe de présence, aucun mouvement. L’esprit y retrouve son équilibre.
Filtering through the day. Hours dimming. The slightest stirring in the woods.
La lenteur grandit, le corps absorbe le blanc, le gris, l’intensité et cette neige qui vient de loin.
No one else on the road. Frozen dirt, ice. It bends around the fields, descends down to the lake. Eternal lake hollowed out of the sun.
Cet hiver radieux qui nourrit le sang et le cerveau, hiver éternellement présent, bénédiction et cercueil.
September 19, 2022
Dans les montagnes les gens attendent les dernières migrations. Les oiseaux sont déjà partis. Il ne reste que les esprits qui partiront par une nuit froide et claire ou au cœur du matin au moment où le givre fond et les dernières fleurs brillent. L’ermite reçoit des nouvelles tristes. Il les met dans son canoë et passe toute la journée sur la rivière. À la tombée de la nuit il revient à son île, fait un feu sur la rive et attend.
Le 22 octobre 2022
It’s time to hunker down and watch the ducks pass overhead. They cast luminous shadows, almost rainbow streaks, the kind of shimmering, shining that children see after it rains. No one else sees this. It haunts the eyes, slows the heart down, softens the gaze. A feather or two filter through the air. They’re like wisps of smoke, almost white, not quite grey. And the hermit is already sitting on the river bank, holding a book, the eternal cup of black tea, laced with honey. The evening is short this time of the year. Chorus of geese somewhere in the distance. It’s chilly here late in the day. Sky flushed behind the branches. Are there poems in the water, or have they been snagged up by the bridge? It’s a simple bridge, not too stable. It seems to float and sway with the wind, the sun, the evening coolness. Some people think it comes and goes, that it isn’t always there or here. It waits for the wind from the west, for the blue luster that comes before the snow.
All Hallow Even 2022
Je suis descendu des collines. La rivière encore sinueuse, sans glace. La plage est fraîche. Il n’y a personne car c’est la nuit et la nuit il n’y a que des étoiles et des esprits, des fantômes ou des poissons curieux, c’est impossible de savoir qui habite la plage la nuit. Je n’ai pas de cahier avec moi. Inutile d’écrire….j’écoute, les oreilles gelées, le nez presque translucide…des sons viennent des vagues, des bruits derrière les buissons, une sorte de mélodie éphémère se lève…j’écoute, les cheveux givrés, les yeux noirs et calmes. C’est la nuit du Solstice et on dit que la lumière sort de son antre et danse avec les esprits courageux.
Le 21 décembre 2022
Darkness. A light in the window across the street. Perhaps in the living room, perhaps in the tiny hall where they usually put their daffodil bulbs. It’s cold in their house and drafty. Someone always leaving a window open, sometimes upstairs in the hall, sometimes in the kitchen when the stove burns too hot and it’s hard to keep working. I’ve often wondered about the people in that house. Shadows at dusk returning. Returning? Perhaps from work or school, or perhaps just returning. It’s an enigma. Flutter of laughter, tiny pinpricks of light on the walk. Light from where? They’re not carrying flashlights or torches, or candles, as my daughter suggests. Yes, a daughter who lives not too far from the Willimantic. She’s discrete and I never talk about her. Silver darkness now. Skipping backwards towards the light in the window across the street. It’s a street most people have never seen, a light that comes and goes, shadows that return, and the flutter of evening laughter.
December 29, 2022
De la neige, de la neige, je cherche la neige, elle se cache, elle s’en fuit, elle disparaît sous la pluie. Elle perd ses couleurs, le bleu de ses yeux, le turquoise de son cœur, le vert foncé de ses poumons. Et la blancheur revient pendant la nuit, blancheur de sang et de boue, blancheur de rêve et de frustration. La quête n’aura pas de fin; les banquises ne sont plus, les tempêtes s’écrasent entre les bras des coraux blessés. Des goûtes de sang sur les lèvres des poètes, sur le visage des témoins. De la neige, de la neige, je cherche la neige, dans toute sa splendeur sauvage et impeccable.
Le 12 janvier 2023
A quiet morning, waiting for snow, watching the birds and the red squirrel come and go. The field is bare, brown-gold and muddy. Seagulls sudden and swift. Maybe the ocean has advanced during the night, maybe one of my dreams has escaped morning vigilance and moved out into field. I spoke with my sister last night; she was tired from moving rocks and boring out stumps. The wall grows slowly, wobbling along the back field. I told her maybe we should meet next week, have a cappuccino and a slice of poppy-seeded lemon poundcake. She thought we could spend the night on the island; it’s been a long time since she was there, wandering through the night with her peculiar gait, shivering in the cold winter air, an old army blanket loosely wrapped around her. She remembered sitting by the fire on the far shore at dawn, a dream fire whose flames probed the darkness.
January 19, 2023
Des reflets que j’ai longtemps cherchés, souvent au cœur de la nuit. Des fragments du jour, mais toujours hors de contexte. Longtemps j’ai cherché des visages dans la neige absente, dans les nuages descendus trop vite. Et des reflets des pensées, souvent à midi quand le soleil se souvient de ses brûlures et la peau ne peut qu’absorber des étincelles.
Ma sœur a trouvé des oiseaux aux profondeurs de la nuit. Des poèmes de sang et de bec, des poèmes en musique et en couleur. Je n’ai trouvé que des déchirures invisibles dans les fibres de chaque page qu’elle me montre.
Le soir nous voyons des plumes flotter sur l’eau, des plumes de toutes les couleurs, de petites plumes duveteuses, souvenirs des rêves les plus paisibles.
Le 2 février 2023
Dreaming. Day and night. Clouds vanishing. The pond still frozen and black streaked. The Old Ones are off again. They left behind a skein of bright green wool. Weaving the fates, weaving time, the loose ends dangling. We tried to retrace their route. Along the river bank, across the meadow. Along the road, across the orchard. Fish scales gleaming. They didn’t cover their tracks; they didn’t leave any. We’re searching for clues of passage; there aren’t any. They went off again, leaving behind a skein of bright green wool. I’ve lit a fire on the river bank, down where the bayous begin. The water there is always dark, luxuriantly tinted. Waiting for the Old Ones, for the ice to melt, for the sun to sear and burn, cauterize and inflame. Copper clouds, blue crystals falling slowly. Broth from the moon’s shadow, from the slender green grasses left behind.
February 19, 2023
Des pages retrouvées dans la remise.
The hermit went back down to the river, with a sack of clementines, a tin of translucent green tea, a tin of pungent black tea, a tin of dark, fragrant coffee, and a new notebook. I gave him the scarf his sister made; it’s thick and woolly and smells like sheep. She took off for the mountains last night and left a pile of things for us to distribute. He’s already given the two sweaters to the wandering child of Furnace Brook and to the ancient person who lives above the river. Peanuts for the crows, corn for the jays. Torn sheets from some attic notebook…off on the wind…skittering across the ice…caught on the park bench near the café. I told him, “Light a fire tonight, snow’s coming, freezing rain’s coming.” The birds will have all gone in; no one will cross the narrow bridge down by the tracks. It’s an old story and one we always share. There’s no beginning, no ending, only a vast and marvelous middle that stretches and stretches and stretches.
28.II.2023
La semaine passée je n’ai pas vu l’ermite. La rivière après les grandes pluies avait des courants dangereux. L’ermite est resté sur l’île, celle qu’on ne peut pas voir du pont. J’avais l’impression bizarre d’une fermeture, d’une rupture. Sur la surface, rien de différent. Le ciel laiteux, l’air lourd. Le petit marché des fleurs était ouvert, les chevaux de la fille inconnue dans les champs. Mais une voix me manquait ; une résonance que je n’ai jamais identifiée tremblait aux marges de la conscience.
Souvenirs du passé.
Silence under the snow. Spring wavering in the blood. The trees have all shed their bones, healed the long wounds from summer. I’ve put the leaves glistening and the leaves fluttering and the leaves amber scented and gold, near the shed, near the river, near the thin stream that flows all the way down across the hills, the leaves fluttering, the leaves golden-black and bronze, when silence under the snow and spring wavering in the blood, all the trees moving around again, moving up into the soil again, up into the rock again, sun creasing the bark, and I’ve put the last crystalline shades of winter on the gleaming mirror, on the snowy silence of long dormant blood.
March 18, 2023
Silence. Passage. Reconnaissance.
Ariane perd son fil, laisse entrer la nuit.
Le 20 mars 2023
Conversations with the hermit…someone said the hermit rarely speaks….often sits on the bank of the Willimantic, watching the wind, the water, the whiteness overspreading the sky. People rarely leave the road. Narrow, barely paved. It’s impossible to see the hermit from the road. The great meadows of the Willimantic are beyond the fragile copse along the road. They stretch and stretch, often slip into the sky. Gold-brown, fibrous. Waiting for ducks, snakes, the fleeting fish that wind through the meanders. I asked the hermit if anything was different this spring. Maybe the light, maybe the cataclysmic news from everywhere? No, the light still bends around us, the news has the blackened bronze weight of centuries. Perhaps my sister will come by tonight, perhaps the old ones, or it may snow the delicate wildness of April, the fluted melody of the Earth on fire.
April 1, 2023
Crossing time, wondering if ten years have changed the landscape, creased or wrinkled the flow of the light. A simple snapshot from a chalet on the shore. Black flies hovering in the fields down the road. Menacing names to the headland that dominates the farms. Narrow crescent of land. Salt stings. Herons, black ducks, the shimmer of fish. Rippling rocks. The hermit washed the stoop, hung out his shirt and pants. Heavy wind, searing sun. Inversion of the expected. A cool wind from the past. The only communication in the evenings, while the fire brightens the heart. Murmuring at the edge of the visible. Never a letter or a call, never a postcard or a text. The moon rises swiftly. Crossing time. Night comes, night recedes. Stirring in the shore trees, the whisper of a song.
May 3, 2023
Osiris Poetry 