Do you ache for the quiver in my step as I approach on soft moss?
Oh, and hello. (forgive me, formality escapes me when I teeter on the brink of bright flashes)
I’ll begin again: How are you? Who are you? Do you anticipate my arrival, as I do yours?
I’m afraid I’ve not had much luck. Swimming upstream in a river of dead fish slopping down the falls as I shoulder out of the muck. Put another way: Love has come (and gone) like a pin prick: it shocks/stings/smarts the finger pad, then evaporates in the wake of the cosmic accident, the digit retaining the throb, blood gathering where surface air meets sebaceous gland.
But then there’s You. The end of my flopping about, my sucking of index fingers. I approach on soft moss. Do you ache?
I try to remain optimistic, with my “Will Concern,” but the kernel of the absolute lies in its non-existence, in its very un-American un-guarantee. Perhaps there is no recipient. Perhaps Recipient is Writer. Perhaps I am “going it alone.”
But I’d to think there is a “You,” a hearth for my heart. It keeps me light, keeps me going outside, keeps me filling mine cup so I can runneth it over.
My tread is lithe, the moss plush. Do you ache for the quiver in my step?
When the light is on its last breath I go down to the creek to hear it bubble and shimmer black. Able to name it without seeing it – I’m leaning into this new trust slowly, nature first.
Without sun, the currents are newly visible in inky jet and etch, going every which way, not simply forward or down: Watery folds like snakes, side winding into sand and gone. The peeling back of dark skins, sinew corded over muscle, networks wrapping bone.
It is here, in this quiet, lightless moment, that I recognize, somewhere deep in my own current, milky black and ebbing, I’ll be ok eventually.
Don’t think about it today – Ready Set Wake! But it scalds the taste buds on the wave of arabica, dumps out with the cereal prize, arrives with the mail, mid-afternoon and delayed, stuck behind some coupon for eggs.
So you get outta dodge – out of The States, for God’s sake – where you dance in the Midsummer parade and bathe in the lakes and sweat in the saunas until you’re bleary-eyed but wide awake. Where the days overlap like pre-teen chatter, no chance to cocoon into night, and the light sweeps you up, clothespins you to the sky – the chance to air dry those sopping thoughts in the Finnish countryside.
But as you flutter between the birches it slices down and perches smack in the middle of your quiet mind and you think: How does anyone escape? How does anyone survive?